


The Proposal

by Keep_Calm_And_Expecto_Patronum



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Easter Eggs, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:07:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 31,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23946676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keep_Calm_And_Expecto_Patronum/pseuds/Keep_Calm_And_Expecto_Patronum
Summary: Geralt is a pushy boss who forces his young assistant, Jaskier, to marry him in order to keep his visa status in Redania and avoid deportation to Rivia.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 86
Kudos: 210
Collections: Pen15 Challenge 11: A Multiverse of Possibilities





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the 2009 film of the same name. I had to write this story in order to get it out of my head. 
> 
> A huge thank you to [ OllieMaye ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OllieMaye/pseuds/OllieMaye), [ BrandonStrayne ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrandonStrayne/pseuds/BrandonStrayne) and [ Drarryismymuse (Hatchersn) ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hatchersn) for always being there to help me with my atrocious SPaG!

When Jaskier overslept for work that fateful morning, he thought that incurring the wrath of his uptight boss would be the worst thing that would happen to him that day.

Unaware of just how truly awful his day was about to get, Jaskier set about his usual routine, albeit haphazardly and with greater speed. After dragging himself out of his cosy bed, he attempted to pull a clean shirt over his head while simultaneously brushing his teeth with little success. He managed to slip on his black leather brogues before realising he hadn’t yet put on his trousers and had to start all over again. As Jaskier roughly pulled on his suit jacket, he glanced at his wristwatch and grimaced: city traffic at this time of the morning was going to be hellish. He’d be quicker just running to the office.

Before he could head into the office, however, he needed to make his daily stop at the _Radiant Rooster Coffee Shop_ for his morning libations. He had to suppress a groan as he pushed open the glass door to find the shop already crowded with customers; by the time he picked up his and Geralt’s coffee, he was going to miss his first meeting of the day.

“Jaskier!”

Just as Jaskier was about to give up and leave, he paused and craned his neck over the heaving crowd of sleep-deprived office workers and saw the dark-haired man at the counter summoning him. Jaskier smiled and waved to the barista, Mislav, and pushed his way to the front of the queue with muttered apologies. Mislav greeted Jaskier and handed him over two paper cups. “I was beginning to worry that you weren’t going to show up today.”

“Mislav, you are a lifesaver. I could kiss you!” Jaskier preened, blowing the barista a kiss and a licentious wink.

Mislav smiled sheepishly and waved Jaskier off as he hurried back out of the shop and towards the skyscraper where _Dark Horse Publishers_ was located. As he hurried up the steep steps towards the main entrance, he tripped up over his own feet and instinctively threw out his right hand to break his fall, losing one of the cups in the process.

“Shit!”

Jaskier could only watch as the paper cup exploded against the stone step upon impact, sending scalding hot coffee in all directions. Jaskier clenched his teeth in pain as he wiped the coffee that had splashed across his arm onto his trouser leg, but he had no time to mourn the loss of the drink. Scrambling back to his feet, he hurried into the building, his remaining beverage still in hand. Time always seemed to slow when one was in a hurry, and Jaskier tapped his foot impatiently as the lift ascended at what felt like a glacial pace. Finally, on the 80th floor, the lift doors pinged open onto the floor of the publishing house that had been his place of work for the last three years. Jaskier stepped out and was relieved to find the mood in the busy office was jovial and relaxed.

“I take that he hasn’t arrived yet,” said Jaskier, marching towards his desk situated next to his friend, Olgierd. Olgierd took a generous bite out of a glazed doughnut and shook his head.

“He’s not usually this late,” he mumbled with his mouth full. “Maybe he’s sick.”

“Like we’re that lucky,” Jaskier scoffed, tucking the leather folder with his work schedule under his arm. Just then, his phone buzzed and he pulled it out of his trouser pocket to check his message. He had a new text from his other workmate, Shani, on their work’s group chat. Clicking on the message, Jaskier sighed. “The Butcher has entered the building.”

“Ah, bollocks.”

Olgierd responded by looking around desperately for his paper basket to dispose of the remainder of his doughnut. When he couldn’t find one, he panicked and tossed the half-eaten pastry into the top drawer of his desk and turned back to his computer screen, his cheeks still bulging with food. Evidently, the rest of the office had also received word that the boss had arrived as everyone scurried back to their desks and tried to look as though they were busy. A moment later, Geralt Haute-Bellegarde, editor-in-chief and the bane of Jaskier’s existence, stepped into the bustling office.

Objectively, Geralt was very handsome. He had the sort of face that made men and women alike stop dead in their tracks: strong and defined, with a sharp jaw, chin and cheekbones like his features were moulded from granite. Pax Gernst, eat your heart out. Despite his stark white hair, Geralt’s face was youthful. Jaskier privately thought that his boss rather suited having white hair—it gave him silver fox vibes. Geralt was more of a wolf than a fox though. No matter how easy on the eyes Geralt was, spending any length of time in his company was perilous. Something Jaskier had discovered on his very first day as Geralt’s assistant.

Geralt’s sharp amber eyes scanned the office and when they fell on Jaskier, he gave him a quick nod to summon him. Jaskier hurried over to his side and handed him the remaining cup. “Linus Pitt called after you left last night, he wants to talk to you about extending the deadline of his latest book.”

“Again?” Geralt grumbled, pushing open the glass door to his corner office, Jaskier following close behind. Even though Jaskier was a lowly assistant, he counted his blessings that he got to spend so much time in this particular room. The view of the city below was spectacular, and it was the kind of office that Jaskier hoped to find himself working in one day.

Geralt sighed and sat at his desk. “Fine. Arrange for a conference call between us later today—”

“Already done,” Jaskier assured him. “He’s booked in to speak to you at four.”

“Anything else?” asked Geralt without bothering to thank him. Jaskier opened his work schedule and cleared his throat.

“Yes, Messers Radovid and Troyden have asked to speak to you after your meeting with Emmerich Gottschalk,” he continued, unperturbed. “Why do you think they want to speak to you?”

Geralt gave a careless shrug. “Probably because I managed to convince Aldert Geert to publish his next novel with us.”

Jaskier gaped at him. “Really? When did this happen?”

“Last night,” said Geralt nonchalantly. “I went to his apartment and spoke to him personally. It took me half the night to talk him into going with us, but in the end I managed to persuade him. That’s why I was late arriving this morning, I had to go home first to shower before coming into the office.”

“Wow. Congratulations, Geralt. Really, well done. I mean, securing Geert’s latest novel is no small feat,” said Jaskier with genuine praise. “I hear that he’s notoriously difficult to negotiate with.”

“If I wanted your praise, I’d have asked for it,” Geralt replied coolly.

Jaskier pursed his lips and scribbled some notes into his schedule, but said nothing. He should have known better than to compliment Geralt, he always threw it back in his face. Just as Geralt was about to take a sip from his paper cup, he paused and his eyes narrowed. “Jaskier, who is Mislav and why does he want you to call him?”

Jaskier froze and looked up from his folder. “Sorry?”

Geralt held the paper cup aloft and Jaskier felt his face burn red hot as he spotted Mislav’s cursive handwriting on the side of it. The phone number was covered by Geralt’s hand but the little love heart at the bottom of the message was unmissable.

“W-well…” Jaskier stammered as Geralt kept his steady gaze trained on him. “That was originally _my_ cup.”

 _“Your_ cup,” Geralt repeated. Geralt sniffed the contents of the cup. “And I’m drinking hot chocolate instead of my usual black coffee...why?”

“Because I spilled yours,” Jaskier admitted quietly. Geralt stared at him.

“How old are you, Jaskier?”

“Twenty-five, sir.”

“You are a grown man and your drink of choice is hot chocolate?” he asked flatly.

“Yes, sir.”

Geralt took a sip of the cup and his eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Is there peppermint in this?”

“Yes, sir,” Jaskier nodded before asking cautiously, “Do you like it?”

Geralt grunted and plonked the cup onto his desk before rising back to his feet. “Come on, we better get this meeting with Emmerich Gottschalk over and done with. I’ve got too many more important things to do today than to waste much time on the likes of him.”

Jaskier sent a quick text to the group chat—“The Butcher is on the move”—before pocketing his phone again and scurrying after Geralt, making a mental note to buy Geralt his own peppermint hot chocolate tomorrow morning. When they exited his office, everyone looked as though they were busy at work, only relaxing again when Geralt was out of sight.

Jaskier glanced at Geralt a couple of times as they walked side by side across the office floor. He felt nervous and a little silly asking this again, but he mustered up his courage and cleared his throat again to get his boss’s attention. “So...h-have you had the chance to read it?”

Geralt frowned. “Read what?”

“My manuscript,” said Jaskier. “Have you managed to read it yet?”

“Oh. Yes, I read the first few pages.”

Jaskier felt a spike of excitement rise inside of him. “And?”

“And I wasn’t impressed.”

Jaskier winced. “Oh...actually, can I say something?”

“No.”

Jaskier ignored this curt response and pressed on. “In the three years that I’ve worked for you, I’ve read thousands of manuscripts and this is the only one I’ve ever given to you. I know that there is an incredible novel in there…”

“Whatever it is, now is not the time to talk about it,” Geralt replied curtly, knocking twice on the varnished oak door to Emmerich’s office and entering before he was invited inside.

Jaskier gritted his teeth in frustration but, as usual, he said nothing and followed Geralt inside, closing the door behind him. It was of little surprise to find Emmerich playing miniature golf in the middle of his office instead of doing any actual work. Jaskier might not be particularly fond of Geralt—his interpersonal skills were atrocious—but at least he actually did his job. Emmerich tapped the golf ball with his putter and cursed under his breath when the ball missed the hole. It was only then that he bothered to look up and smile at Geralt, who stood waiting patiently for him to finish.

“Ah! Our fearless leader and his liege!” he joked, leaning on his putter like a cane. “Please, do come in!”

Geralt stepped further into the office and looked between Emmerich and an obscenely large, decorative liquor cabinet pushed against the wall on the opposite end of the office. “Is this new?”

“Well, it’s an eighth-century Temerian armoire, but yes, it is new to my office,” Emmerich chuckled.

“Hmm. funny,” Geralt muttered. “Emmerich, I’m letting you go.”

The smarmy smile fell from Emmerich’s face. “P-pardon?”

“I asked you a dozen times to close the deal on Aldert Geert, and you wouldn’t do it. So, you’re fired.”

“I told you that it can’t be done,” Emmerich protested. “You know what he’s like, the man is impossible to please. His requests are always too outlandish!”

“Well, that is interesting to hear, because I just got back from a night long, one-on-one negotiation with Geert, and he is in. Therefore, you are out.”

Emmerich’s expression quickly morphed from shock to anger. “Excuse me, but who the hell do you think you’re talking to?”

“You didn’t even try calling him, did you?” Geralt asked accusingly. “You figured the job was too difficult, so you didn’t even bother trying. I bet you made more of an effort picking out that bloody liquor cabinet than you did trying to convince Geert to sign with us.”

Emmerich brandished his putter at Geralt. “You can’t fire me! I’m indispensable to this company!”

Geralt, however, didn’t flinch as Emmerich pointed the metal toe of the putter at Geralt’s face. Instead, he kept his cool gaze fixed on Emmerich’s and retorted, “You are lazy, self-entitled, and incompetent. You getting fired has been a long time coming and you have nobody to blame but yourself. Now, I will give you two months to find another job. That way, you can tell everyone that you resigned. Don’t look at me like that, Emmerich, this isn’t up for discussion. That will be all.”

With that, Geralt turned on his heel and left the office with Jaskier by his side, leaving a gobsmacked Emmerich staring after them. Jaskier tried and failed to suppress a smile. Okay, so Geralt was a complete arse most of the time, but that had been deliciously satisfying to witness.

“Status?” Geralt asked as they continued to walk back towards his office. Jaskier looked over his shoulder and into the large window into Emmerich’s office.

“He’s marching back and forth like a caged animal. Oh dear, he’s got crazy eyes.”

“Don’t do it, Emmerich,” Geralt muttered under his breath. “If you know what’s good for you, don’t do it…”

A moment later, Emmerich stamped out of his office onto the office floor and bellowed after Geralt, “Screw you, you poisonous bastard!”

The chatter in the office immediately died and Geralt stopped walking. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath before turning to face Emmerich, who worryingly still had his golf club in hand. Emmerich, emboldened by his large, enraptured audience, puffed up his chest and pointed his putter accusingly at Geralt.

“You think that I don’t know what you’re doing? Sandbagging me on this Geert thing just so that you can look good to the board of directors? Because the truth is that you’re threatened by me, aren’t you?” he cried.

“Emmerich, do yourself a favour and stop already,” Geralt replied lazily. “You’re only making this worse for yourself.”

“Just because you have no semblance of a life outside of this office, you think that you can treat all of us like your personal slaves. Like we’re plebs: the great unwashed!” Emmerich continued to rage. “Well, you know what? I pity you, Geralt. Because you know what you’re going to have on your deathbed? Nothing and no one.”

Jaskier cast a sideways glance at Geralt and noticed his jaw tense at those words. He half-expected Geralt just to deck Emmerich for saying that, but instead, he said quietly but clearly, “Listen, Emmerich, and listen carefully. I didn’t fire you because I’m threatened by you. I fired you because you spend more time cheating on your wife than you do working in the office. Now if you say another word, Jaskier here is going to have you thrown out on your arse.”

“I am?” Jaskier stammered.

How the hell was he going to throw Emmerich out of the office? Emmerich was huge. Geralt was even bigger than Emmerich and could easily do the arse-throwing himself, so why the hell was he dragging Jaskier into this? Geralt continued as though Jaskier hadn’t interrupted, “Another word, and you will be escorted off of the premises and Jaskier here will post the whole thing on that whatchamacallit...that internet app thing. Jaskier, what’s it called?”

“TikTok.”

“TikTok,” Geralt nodded. “Is that what you want?” When Emmerich didn’t answer, Geralt grinned at him. “I didn’t think so. Now, I have work to do. Do us all a favour and see yourself out.”

As Geralt turned his back on Emmerich for a second time, he said to Jaskier, “Have security take Emmerich’s liquor cabinet out of his office and put it in the conference room.”

“Will do.”

“And now that Emmerich has sadly left us, I’m going to need you around this weekend to help me review the manuscripts and files he’s left unfinished.”

Jaskier tensed. “This weekend?”

The words left his mouth before he could stop himself and he immediately regretted it. Geralt stopped dead in his tracks and glared at Jaskier. “You have a problem with that?”

Jaskier stammered, “Well, my annual leave starts this Friday. I had planned on going home for a few days, and it’s my grandmother’s ninetieth birthday you see, and…You know what? It’s fine! I’ll just cancel it. You’re actually saving me from two weeks of misery anyway. Of my mum’s delicious home cooking, and being surrounded by the people that I love...I mean, there’s always next year, isn’t there? I hope. I’m sure my grandmother still has a few good years left in her yet.”

Geralt had already started walking away before Jaskier had finished talking to him and he felt his insides wither with shame and inadequacy. Great. How the hell was he going to break it to his grandmother that he wasn’t going to make it to her birthday party—again?


	2. Chapter 2

Geralt was exhausted. He hadn’t intended to spend the entire night negotiating with Aldert Geert, but the man’s awkward personality more than preceded him. He had foolishly thought that taking the renowned author out for a swanky meal and a few drinks would butter him up enough to sign onto _Dark Horse Publishers,_ but it had been an all-or-nothing game of Gwent in the wee hours of the morning that had finally convinced the elusive writer to come aboard. Geralt would never admit that to the board of directors, of course. Not that they would ask; they didn’t much care how you did your job, so long as you did it well.

Geralt stifled a yawn as the lift ascended to the top floor of the building. He had been in desperate need of that coffee Jaskier failed to provide. A peppermint hot chocolate was not enough to ward off the tiredness that seemed to seep into his bones. Gods, when was the last time he had taken a holiday? Not that he ever had time for that sort of thing. Or anywhere to go...or anyone to go with.

When the lift pinged and the doors slid open to the floor where his superior, Radovid, resided, Geralt stepped onto the floor and walked past his boss’s assistant without so much as a passing glance. He knocked politely but firmly on the door to Radovid’s office and waited patiently to be summoned. Still, it was nice to get some recognition for all of the hard work he had put in, especially from the board of directors. Now was probably a good time to mention that promotion he’d been after.

When Geralt heard the muffled voice of his superior call him through, he stood to his full height and pulled his shoulders back before entering the room. Carefully closing the door behind him, he nodded towards Radovid and Troyden, the two most senior members of the board of directors. “Good morning, gentlemen.”

“Geralt, congratulations on securing Aldert Geert’s next novel.” Radovid motioned for Geralt to take the leather armchair in front of his desk. “Quite the accomplishment.”

“Thank you, sir,” he replied, taking his seat.

Troyden, a wizened-looking gentleman in a light grey suit, stood at his usual place behind Radovid’s left shoulder like an old vulture. He smiled at Geralt and gave him a nod in greeting, but as per usual, he left Radovid to do most of the talking. Radovid, on the other hand, looked strikingly authoritative by comparison: his face and head were always clean-shaven, making his deep-set eyebrows all the more prominent. He always dressed well, today favouring a handsome charcoal pinstripe suit that Geralt would happily have worn himself.

“Geralt,” Radovid began slowly. “Do you remember when we agreed that you wouldn’t attend the Vizima Book Fair because you weren’t allowed out of the country while your visa application was being processed?”

“Yes, I do.”

There was a long, drawn-out pause before Radovid added, “But you went to Vizima.”

“Yes, I did,” he confirmed. “We were going to lose Premethine Shakeslock to the _Fantastyka Publishing House,_ so I didn’t really have much of a choice. I had to go.”

“Well, it seems that the government doesn’t much care who publishes Shakeslock’s theories on Black Magic,” Radovid muttered, pulling a folder towards him and flipping it open to the first page.

“We just spoke to your immigration lawyer,” Troyden chipped in. Geralt frowned.

“Okay...does that mean that my visa application has been approved?”

“I’m afraid it isn’t good news. Your visa application has been denied,” Radovid informed him. Geralt stared back at him blankly for a few moments.

“Excuse me?”

“Your application has been denied,” Radovid repeated evenly. “And you are being deported.”

 _“Deported?”_ Geralt exclaimed.

“Apparently, there was also some paperwork that you didn’t fill out on time,” Radovid added, his dark grey eyes scanning the folder. Geralt let out a nervous laugh.

“Is this some kind of joke or prank?”

“I’m afraid not,” said Radovid quietly, looking up at him with a mournful expression. “I am sorry about this Geralt, but our hands are tied.”

Geralt shook his head in disbelief. “No. There must be something that we can do.”

“We can reapply but you’ll have to leave the country for at least a year,” Troyden informed him.

“A year?” Geralt rubbed his tired face and sighed. “Okay, that’s not ideal, but we can work around it. I can manage everything from Rivia, through video conferencing and—”

“Geralt,” Troyden interrupted. “I’m afraid it isn’t that simple. If you’re deported, you can’t work for a Redanian company.”

“Until this is resolved, I’m going to be turning operations over to Emmerich Gottschalk,” said Radovid. Geralt gaped at him.

“Emmerich Gottschalk?” he asked flatly. “The guy I just fired?”

“We need an editor-in-chief to run operations here in Tretogor, and he’s the only person in the entire building with enough experience to do the job,” Radovid explained. “Look, I’m really sorry about this. We are desperate to have you stay, and if there was any way, any way at all, of making this work, we would be doing it.”

Radovid kept speaking but Geralt was no longer listening. He was too busy wracking his brain trying to figure out how the hell to get himself out of this mess. The first thing that sprang to mind was to sack his immigration lawyer, but that wouldn’t do anything to help his current predicament. The next equally useless and insane thought that crossed his mind was if he were to have a child, he could apply for the right to remain. Ethics and insanity aside, logistically that plan was impossible to execute.

There was a polite knock at the door and Radovid’s assistant popped her head through the door. “I’m sorry to interrupt you sir, but you have an important call waiting…”

“Not now, Milva, we’re in the middle of an important meeting,” Radovid chastised.

“I know that, sir, I told Mr La Voisier that you were otherwise engaged but he insists that he speaks to you right away.”

Geralt’s ears pricked up then. Suddenly, he had an idea. A terrible, desperate and diabolical idea.

* * *

“I don’t know how many times I have to say it before you believe me, but I’m really sorry,” Jaskier implored. “It’s not my fault, it’s Geralt! He’s the one making me work over my annual leave.”

“I don’t want to hear it,” his mother’s voice hissed over the phone. “It’s always one excuse after another with you. If you don’t want to come home, I’d rather you just told us than getting your poor grandmother’s hopes up just to let her down again.”

“Please, don’t use grammy to guilt-trip me,” he groaned, thudding his head against his desk. “I feel bad enough as it is.”

“And so you should,” his mother replied testily. “So, when are you planning on visiting us?”

“I don’t know,” he sighed. “I’ll try and visit in time for Christmas.”

There was a long pause before his mother spoke again, more softly this time. “I do miss you, you know.”

Jaskier clenched his eyes shut. “I miss you too.”

Jaskier ended the phone call and let out a weary sigh. Breaking the bad news to his mother that his trip home was cancelled had gone over as well as he had thought it would. She was furious, his grandmother was heartbroken, and his father...well, he’d rather not think about him right now. Jaskier pocketed his phone just as Geralt returned to the office, looking angrier and more ashen-faced than usual. He watched with mounting curiosity and concern as Geralt strode past his desk without bothering to summon him, closed the door to his office and drew the curtains, blocking the rest of the office floor from view. Evidently, the meeting with the head honchos had not gone well.

Jaskier suddenly felt a twinge of panic. Had Geralt been reprimanded for firing Emmerich? Surely not...unless he had been sacked as well. If that were the case, then that would mean Jaskier was out of a job, too. No, it couldn’t be that. Geralt was a lot of things, but he was a hard worker and invaluable to the company. So what in the world would have Geralt, the infamous Butcher of Blaviken, so riled up? Jaskier nervously chewed his thumbnail, trying to decide what to do. He knew that he ought to go and check up on Geralt, see how the meeting went. He was his assistant, after all; he should be in there assisting. But he also didn’t fancy getting his head bitten off, either.

Thankfully, Jaskier didn’t have to decide either way because a moment later, Geralt’s office door opened and he beckoned him inside.

“Based on your expression, I take that your meeting with the bosses went well,” he joked, sitting in the chair opposite Geralt’s desk. Geralt sank into his own chair without answering, but the look on his face spoke a thousand words, none of them good. Geralt cleared his throat and laced his fingers together on the table. He seemed reluctant to meet Jaskier’s eye as he spoke.

“A situation has arisen,” he began. “As you are probably aware, I’m originally from Rivia.”

“Yes,” Jaskier replied slowly.

“Well, it seems that there has been a problem processing my visa application,” he continued. “Actually....my application was denied and I’m being threatened with deportation.”

Jaskier’s stomach sank. “What? Why?”

“Apparently, I violated the terms of my work visa when I attended the Vizima Book Fair,” Geralt explained with a note of bitterness in his voice.

“Well, you _had_ to go,” Jaskier argued. “You saved more than a few people’s jobs by attending that Fair!”

“You’re damn right, I did,” Geralt snarled. “I put my arse on the line for them and this is how they repay me. Typical.”

“What happens now?”

Geralt sighed. “I can reapply but it’ll take months for the application process to go through. It’s ridiculous if you ask me, it’s not even like I’m a proper immigrant. I’m Rivian, for fuck sake!”

“So, what does this mean?” Jaskier pressed. “Are you going to work from Rivia until they can get all of this straightened out, or..?”

Geralt shook his head. “Without a valid visa, I can’t work for a Redanian company. The way things are right now, I couldn’t even get a job as a fucking barista in a coffee shop.”

“Does that mean that you’re being replaced?” asked Jaskier cautiously. Geralt’s expression darkened.

“They want Emmerich Gottschalk to take on the role as editor-in-chief in my absence,” he grumbled.

“Emmerich?” Geralt nodded. “Emmerich Gottschalk?” Jaskier repeated, unable to believe what he was hearing. “The bloke that you just fired?”

Geralt grunted and Jaskier sank back into his seat, trying to process the news. It was strange, knowing that Geralt was going to leave. Jaskier had spent the last three years wishing for just that to happen, for Geralt to find another job or to choke on his coffee, anything to see the back of him. But now that it was finally happening, Jaskier was surprised how deflated he felt about it. He looked up at Geralt; his handsome face was etched with worry. Despite how much he disliked his boss, he couldn’t help but feel sorry for the man.

“Is there anything that I can do to help?” he heard himself saying. “I can go back to Roosters and get you a coffee, if you like.”

Geralt worried his lip in silent contemplation for a moment before saying, “There is one thing that you could do.”

“Name it.”

Geralt hesitated. “I uh...I might have told Radovid that I was getting married.”

Jaskier frowned. “I didn’t know that you were in a relationship.”

“I’m not.”

“Then why would you tell Radovid that you were?”

“Because if I get married to a Redanian, I’ll have legal status to remain,” Geralt explained.

“Okay, I suppose that makes sense. But how do you propose that you get married when you are currently single?” asked Jaskier curiously.

“Like I said, there is one thing—quite a big thing—that you could do to help,” said Geralt slowly, giving Jaskier an expectant look. Jaskier, however, had absolutely no idea how he could possibly help in this situation.

Then, the penny dropped.

“You are joking,” said Jaskier without a trace of humour.

“When do I joke about anything?” Geralt replied honestly.

“Never in your life,” he retorted. “Oh gods, you’re being serious, aren’t you? You really expect me to marry you?”

“Why not?” Geralt shrugged. “It’s not like you have to do anything other than sign some legal papers. Once my legal status to remain is ensured, we’ll get divorced and everything can go back to normal.”

“Asking your assistant to marry you isn’t normal, Geralt!” Jaskier raged. “And it’s illegal, apart from anything else. Have you considered that?”

“I won’t tell anyone if you won’t.”

“Now is not the time to joke!” Jaskier crossed his arms and shook his head. “No. Absolutely not. I _refuse_ to marry you.”

“You will if you want to keep your job.”

Jaskier snorted. “Excuse me, but it’s not _my_ job that’s on the line here. Sorry Geralt, I will gladly grab you a cup of coffee and do your paperwork—I’ll even pick up your dog from the vet’s—but I will not, under any circumstances, marry you.”

“I wouldn’t make any rash decisions before assessing all of the facts,” Geralt warned. “If I lose my job, what does that mean for you? Do you really think Emmerich will take you on as his assistant?”

Jaskier hesitated. “Well...I don’t know. He might!”

“You and I both know that he won’t,” Geralt argued. “The second I’m out of the door, you won’t be far behind. As shitty as this situation is—particularly for me—the outcome will impact both of us. Believe me, marrying you is the last thing in the world that I want to do.”

“The feeling is entirely mutual,” Jaskier bristled.

“It might not be what we want, but it’s what we need to do if we’re going to have any chance of saving our jobs and stopping me from being deported. It’s the only way.”

Geralt spoke with a hint of desperation that Jaskier had never heard before. Jaskier ran his hand through his hair and looked out of the large office windows that overlooked the city of Tretogor. He knew that Geralt was right: there was no way that Emmerich would want to take him on as an assistant. He’d want any and all trace of Geralt eradicated from the office, and that included him. Jaskier’s mind was spinning. He told himself that there must be some other way of fixing this, but deep down, he knew that there was no other alternative. If he wanted to keep his job at _Dark Horse Publishers,_ he’d have to marry Geralt.

But was any job worth that? He could always apply for work at another publishing house. He had an impressive resume and would surely get something with another company…

No. Jaskier had worked too damn hard and given up too much already to get to the position that he was in now. He thought of all of the missed birthdays and Christmases over the past three years, all of the late nights at the office, of running around like a headless chicken to fulfill Geralt’s every whim. He had thrown everything into this job, sacrificed so much to get to where he is now, and all of that was to be for nothing because Geralt had been negligent with filing some paperwork. It wasn’t fair. And Jaskier wasn’t going to let that happen.

“If we’re going to do this, I want something in return,” he finally said.

Geralt’s head snapped up with a shocked expression as though he hadn’t really expected Jaskier to agree to this. Still, he managed to suppress the surprise from his voice when he replied, “Well, that depends on what you want.”

“I want you to publish my manuscript.”

“No,” Geralt replied quickly. “That’s not possible.”

“Fine,” said Jaskier lightly, rising to his feet. “Good luck finding someone else crazy enough to marry you.”

“Wait!” Geralt blurted out and Jaskier paused. “Just hold on a second. I...yes, we can publish your manuscript. Ten thousand copies first run.”

“Twenty thousand,” Jaskier shot back.

Geralt’s eyes narrowed. “Fifteen.”

“Seventeen.”

Geralt clenched his jaw in frustration but gave a curt nod in agreement. Jaskier grinned broadly and thrust out his hand for Geralt to shake, which he did so reluctantly.

“Alright, now that we’re in agreement, we need to head back upstairs and speak to Radovid,” said Geralt.

Jaskier’s smile faltered. “Why do I need to come with you?”

“He just wants to have a word with you about the situation,” Geralt replied evasively, rising to his feet and running his hands over his charcoal suit to smooth it out. Jaskier suddenly felt a spike of anger rise up in him and he pointed accusingly at Geralt.

“You already told him that we were getting married, didn’t you?” he shouted. “Before you even spoke to me about it!”

“Well, I had to give him _someone’s_ name!” Geralt argued, confirming Jaskier’s suspicions.

“And you couldn’t think of anyone else,” he cried. “Of the billions of people in the world that you could have chosen from, you decided to drag me into this! Why?”

“Because I trust you!” Geralt shouted before admitting more quietly, “You’re the only person that I trust.” Jaskier stared at him, gobsmacked by Geralt’s brazenness and his admission. Geralt squared his shoulders and said, “Look, I didn’t wake up this morning thinking that I was going to be announcing my marriage to my assistant either. I was put on the spot and I had to think fast. I panicked, alright?”

“No, it’s not alright. Far bloody from it!” Jaskier bit back. “Not only are you twisting my arm into doing this, you have the gall to lie to me as well! How dare you be so presumptive to think that I would marry you!”

“You just did!” Geralt retorted. “And I’m hardly twisting your arm. _You’re_ the one that’s using my predicament to your advantage to get your manuscript published!”

“Don’t pretend that you’re the victim here! If you had bothered to fill in your visa application properly in the first place, we wouldn’t be in this mess!” Jaskier shot back.

“Keep your voice down!” Geralt hissed, glancing towards the office door. “You want everyone on the floor to know what we’re doing?”

“Unbelievable,” Jaskier seethed. “Actually, no. This sort of behaviour is _entirely_ believable where you’re concerned.”

“Are you quite done shouting at me?” Geralt grumbled, holding the office door open for Jaskier to follow.

“No!” Jaskier marched past Geralt muttering under his breath, “I’m going to continue shouting at you until this is all over.”

Geralt gritted his teeth in frustration but kept his mouth shut as they walked past their colleagues. Jaskier welcomed the momentary pause in their row. He still hadn’t processed what the hell was happening and this gave him a minute to think about everything that was unfolding. When he had overslept that morning, he knew that it was going to be an off day, and he had been right. From the moment he had gotten out of bed, nothing had gone right for him. Who’d have thought that making his grandmother cry was only the second-worst thing to have happened to him today?

As he and Geralt entered the lift and it began its ascent, he tried to convince himself that his situation could be worse. Right now he couldn’t think how that could be possible, but to an optimist like Jaskier, that was some comfort, however small.


	3. Chapter 3

Jaskier had never been in Radovid’s office before. He wasn’t important enough to be summoned here for personal chats with the head honcho. Yet here he was, standing in front of the man who could make or break Jaskier depending on how well he managed to bullshit him. His associate, Troyden, stood to his left with his arms crossed and a confused expression.

“This is your fiance?” asked Troydon.

“Yes, sir,” Geralt nodded. Troyden looked between Geralt and Jaskier.

“Isn’t he your secretary?”

“Executive uh...assistant secretary, actually,” Geralt replied before waving his hand dismissively. “Arbitrary titles. And let’s be honest, this wouldn’t be the first time one of us fell for our secretary, would it Troyden?”

Troyden bristled at the sly dig and Radovid huffed out a laugh. “Fair point. I must admit that I’m curious as to how this relationship of yours came about.”

“Oh, you know how it is,” Geralt shrugged. “All those late nights together at the office, travelling to book fairs. We tried to fight it but something just...happened. Right, Jaskier?”

“Yes, something happened alright,” laughed Jaskier nervously, flinching slightly when Geralt unexpectedly put his strong arm around his shoulders and pulled him closer in what was supposed to look like an affectionate embrace.

“How long has this relationship been going on for?” asked Troyden.

“Six months,” said Jaskier.

“A year,” Geralt replied.

Radovid cocked an eyebrow at them and Geralt clarified, “What we mean to say is, we started seeing each other about a year ago but we only made it exclusive in the last six months.”

Jaskier nodded vigorously in agreement. “Right! Right, exactly…”

“Yes. We’re eh... just two people who weren’t meant to fall in love but did,” Geralt added wistfully.

“Yup. Two people in love. Deeply in love...with each other,” Jaskier rambled. “You know, uh, when Geralt proposed, he looked at me and said, ‘Jaskier, you are my world. My everything.’ Then he got down on one knee and—”

 _“Yes,”_ Geralt cut in, interrupting Jaskier’s gibbering. “Can’t fight a love like ours!”

Jaskier abruptly shut his mouth when Geralt squeezed his arm tightly and shot him a warning look. Troydon still looked confused but Radovid seemed highly amused by the whole situation.

“So, is this satisfactory?” asked Geralt cautiously. “Are you happy?”

“Because we are so happy,” Jaskier stressed, resting his head on Geralt’s shoulder for added effect.

“This is wonderful news,” Radovid gushed, rising to his feet and extending his hand for both men to shake. “Congratulations to you both. I’ve been saying for a long time that you ought to spend some time on yourself, Geralt. Find yourself someone to go home to after a long day at the office. I’m glad that you finally took my advice.”

“Yes, sir,” Geralt replied flatly. “Thank you, sir.”

“Yeah, thanks very much!” said Jaskier a little too enthusiastically.

“Terrific news.” Radovid let out a relieved sigh and sank back into his large, leather armchair. “For _you_ and for us. Just make it legal, yes?”

“Yes. Legal…” Geralt croaked. “Well...I guess we better get down to the immigration office and sort out this whole mess.”

“Yes, dear,” said Jaskier.

Geralt’s eye twitched at the informal pet name, but he fixed a smile onto his face and nodded to his bosses. “Thank you very much for your time, gentlemen.”

Geralt and Jaskier exited the office with their arms still wrapped around each other’s shoulders, keeping up the facade of the happy couple as they walked past Radovid’s bemused secretary. It was only when they were alone in the sanctuary of the deserted lift that they released each other from their awkward embrace and took a large step apart from one another.

“I feel like that went quite well,” said Jaskier brightly.

“That was the single most humiliating moment of my life,” Geralt declared.

“Well, if you find the idea of marrying me so repugnant, then you should have manipulated someone else into your little scheme,” Jaskier huffed. Okay, so he wasn’t exactly over the moon about their current situation either, but he couldn’t help but be a little insulted at how averse Geralt was to the mere thought of marrying him. “So, what now?”

“We’ll head back to the office first so that we can grab our coats, then we'll go straight to the immigration office. I just want to get this over and done with as quickly as possible.”

“Likewise,” Jaskier muttered. A short silence followed before he asked, “Do you think they know we’re faking it?”

“Probably,” Geralt admitted. “Not that Radovid gives a shit. He’s the ‘hear no evil, see no evil’ type. It’s like he said: so long as it’s legal, he won’t give us any trouble.”

“Well, that’s a relief.” Jaskier’s phone buzzed in his pocket and he pulled it out to find a string of unread messages. Clicking on the work’s group chat, he groaned, “Ah, shit.”

“What is it?”

Jaskier showed him some of the messages. “Looks like the word’s out about us already.”

“Fuck! I bet it was Radovid’s secretary!” Geralt snarled, stabbing the lift button for the foyer with his index finger. “Forget heading back to the office, let’s get out of here.”

“That’s the most sensible thing you’ve said all day.”

The immigration office was only a few subway stops from the office, but the queue to be seen was predictably long. Nobody here cared that Geralt was a bigshot editor-in-chief of a world-class publishing company, so they had to take their designated number and find a couple of hard plastic chairs to sit on while they waited their turn to be seen like everyone else. While Geralt kept himself busy with work calls, Jaskier idly observed the people around him with interest. It was amusing to see that everyone else looked as happy to be here as he felt. He picked up accents from across the entire continent: Zerrikanians and Temerians, even a few Nilfgaardians were here, all hoping to get the same thing as Geralt. Jaskier stole a glance at his gloomy boss who was still chatting away quietly on his phone like he was completely oblivious to his surroundings. It annoyed Jaskier how calm and matter-of-fact Geralt was about all of this while he was struggling to keep his head together. Gods, how the hell were they going to pull this off?

“Mr Haute-Bellegarde!”

Geralt immediately ended his phone call when his name was called. A burly, bald-headed man with a mean face and a small black clipboard in hand scanned the sea of faces for Geralt’s. When he noticed Geralt stand and raise his hand, the man jerked his head in the direction of his office and they followed suit. The man beckoned them into his office and shook their hands as they entered.

“Sigismund Dijkstra,” he introduced himself before closing the door behind him. “Sorry about the long wait. There’s never really a good time to visit, if I’m honest, it’s always mobbed.”

“No trouble at all,” Geralt assured him, putting on the charm offensive that Jaskier had seen him do a million times before with prospective clients. “We understand that you have a lot on your plate at the moment, so we’ll take up as little of your time as possible.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you, Mr Haute-Bellegarde.”

“Please, call me Geralt.”

Sigismund gave him a small smile. “Geralt. I have one question for you and Mr Pankratz.”

“Yes?”

“Are you both committing fraud to avoid Mr Haute-Bellegarde—sorry, Geralt’s—deportation so that he can keep his position as editor-in-chief at _Dark Horse Publishers?”_

Jaskier let out a hysterical burst of laughter. “That’s ridiculous!”

“Where did you hear that?” Geralt demanded.

“We had a phone tip from a source that shall remain anonymous,” Sigismund explained.

“It wouldn’t be Emmerich Gottschalk, by any chance?” asked Geralt.

Sigismund raised his bushy eyebrows in surprise. “So you know him?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Geralt grumbled. “He is nothing more than a disgruntled former employee. I fired him today, so he’s probably feeling a bit—”

“Sensitive,” Jaskier interjected. “Vulnerable. Homicidal…”

“I apologise for Mr Gottschalk wasting your time. His accusations are entirely baseless and he has contacted you out of pure spite and nothing else,” said Geralt. “Now, if we could move this along so that we can all get on with the rest of our day, I’d really appreciate that.”

Sigismund, however, didn’t look convinced. “Let me explain to you the process that’s about to unfold. Step one will be a scheduled interview. I’ll put you each in a room and I’ll ask you every little question that a real couple would know about each other.”

“Well, that’s fine by us since we _are_ a real couple, eh Geralt?” said Jaskier, nudging his boss with his elbow.

“Step two,” Sigismund continued. “I dig deeper. I look at your phone records. I talk to your neighbours. I interview your coworkers. If your answers don’t match up at every point, _you_ will be deported indefinitely, Mr Haute-Bellegarde, and _you,_ young man, will have committed a felony punishable by a fine of 250 thousand crowns and a stay of five years in Deireadh Prison.” Sigismund paused for dramatic effect before asking, “So, Mr Pankratz. Is there something that you would like to tell me?”

Jaskier felt like the wind had been knocked out of him. Five years in prison? Suddenly, there was far more than his job on the line. He glanced at Geralt, who kept his expression impassive but his body was tense with fear. Jaskier swallowed hard and shook his head.

“No,” he squeaked.

“No?” asked Sigismund sceptically. Slowly, Jaskier began to nod. “Yes?”

“Mr Dijkstra, the truth is...that Geralt and I are deeply in love. We’re just two people who weren’t supposed to fall in love. But against all odds, we did.” Jaskier took Geralt’s hand into his own and gave it a reassuring squeeze and the tension visibly eased in Geralt’s shoulders. He flashed Jaskier an appreciative look before he added, “We just couldn’t tell anyone at the office because of my big promotion that I have coming up.”

Geralt’s smile immediately fell. “Promotion?”

“Yes, dear. My promotion,” Jaskier repeated with a sly smile. “We both felt that it would be deeply inappropriate if I were to be promoted to editor—”

_“Editor?”_

“—before things between us were made more official,” he finished, patting Geralt’s hand which was gripping his own more tightly than strictly necessary. Sigismund looked between the two of them with a bemused expression but finally, he shrugged and sat back in his chair.

“Okay, then,” he sighed. “Have the two of you told your parents about your relationship?”

“My parents are dead,” Geralt replied. “No brothers or sisters, either.”

“And you?” asked Sigismund. “Are your parents conveniently dead as well?”

“Oh. No, they’re very much alive, thank the gods. Well, they were the last time that I checked,” Jaskier chuckled.

Geralt cleared his throat and said, “We plan on telling his parents about us—”

“This weekend,” Jaskier cut in. “At my grandmother’s ninetieth birthday party.”

“We are?” asked Geralt.

“Oh yes. The whole family’s gathering for the event. We thought that it’d be a nice surprise.” Jaskier turned to Geralt and grinned. “Grammy is so excited to see you...dear.”

Geralt and Jaskier glared at each other through strained smiles. It was taking all of their willpower to stop themselves from erupting into another argument in front of the immigration officer.

“Uh huh. And where is all of this taking place?” asked Sigismund, addressing Geralt. Geralt turned to Sigismund and shrugged.

“Jaskier’s parents’ house, obviously.”

“And where exactly is that again?” Sigismund pressed. Geralt hesitated.

“It’s in, uh…”

“Oxenfurt,” Jaskier answered.

“Oxenfurt.” Geralt repeated. “Oxenfurt on the coast?”

“Yes, dear,” nodded Jaskier.

“You’re both going to travel to Oxenfurt this weekend?” asked Sigismund flatly.

“For two weeks, actually,” said Jaskier and the vein in Geralt’s temple seemed to pulse with anger. “I’m on annual leave as of today.”

“And how do you intend to get there?” asked Sigismund

“Flying, of course,” Jaskier laughed. “We can hardly ride a horse there, can we, love?”

Geralt didn’t answer. Oh yes, they were going to travel to the opposite end of the Kingdom for his grandmother’s ninetieth birthday party, whether Geralt liked it or not. And to announce his upcoming nuptials to his boss, of course.

Sigismund sighed and pulled a notepad towards him. “Alright, suit yourselves. I will see you both here in two weeks’ time for your scheduled interview, and your answers better match up on every account. I have to say…” Sigismund tore off the sheet of paper and slid it across the table towards the two men. “...I’m looking forward to this one.”

“Me too,” said Jaskier, slipping the paper into his trouser pocket.

“Have fun in Oxenfurt,” Sigismund called after them as they left the office. As soon as Geralt slammed the door shut behind him, he rounded on Jaskier.

“What the fuck, Jaskier?” he snarled. “Promotions? Annual leave? Where do you get off thinking that you can—”

Geralt abruptly fell silent as Jaskier pressed his index finger to his lips. “First of all, let’s get out of the bloody building before we start fighting like an old married couple, shall we?”

Geralt swatted away Jaskier’s hand and stormed out of the building with Jaskier following close behind.

“If you think you’re going to be an editor at the end of this, you’ve got another thing coming,” Geralt raged as he stormed down the steps of the government building. “You’ll be lucky if I don’t sack you for insubordination!”

“Are you quite done?” asked Jaskier coolly. “Good. Now, here’s what’s going to happen. We’re going to go to my parents’ for annual leave, which I had already planned before you decided to cancel it this morning. We’ll pretend that we’re boyfriends and tell them that we’re engaged. When we get back, you’ll publish my manuscript with twenty thousand copies first run.”

Geralt stopped dead in his tracks and gaped at him. “But we agreed—”

 _“Twenty_ thousand,” Jaskier repeated more forcefully. “And a promotion to editor when we return to work. Not in a year's time, as soon as we get back from Oxenfurt.”

Geralt looked furious. “Who do you think you are, making demands of me?”

 _“I_ am the idiot risking life and limb for you!” Jaskier cried. “Were you not just in that room? Did you not hear what Dijkstra said? Before it was just our jobs on the line. Now the stakes are higher. If all of this falls through, you just get to go home. I could go to jail!”

“You won’t go to jail!” Geralt argued.

“I want what I’m owed,” said Jaskier evenly. “Publish my manuscript and promote me to editor. Those are my terms.”

Geralt shook his head. “No.”

“Then I quit and you are screwed. Goodbye, Geralt.”

Jaskier turned to leave but Geralt grabbed him by the shoulder. “Wait! Urgh... _fine_. I’ll make you editor.”

“And you’ll publish my manuscript.”

“Yes! Yes,” he replied impatiently. “I’ll give you whatever you want. But only if you do the trip to Oxenfurt and the immigration interview. Do that and I’ll make you an editor. Deal?”

“Only if you ask me nicely.”

Geralt frowned. “Ask you nicely to what?”

Jaskier smirked. “To marry you.”

_“What?”_

“You heard me.” Jaskier crossed his arms. “Get down on one knee.”

Geralt looked uncertainly up and down the busy street. “Right here in the middle of the street?”

“Yup. Just think what a romantic story this will be to tell the children one day.”

Geralt’s expression darkened and Jaskier began to wonder if he’d pushed his luck too far this time. But miraculously, Geralt slowly began to bend down onto one knee. Jaskier couldn’t put into words how satisfying it was to see Geralt bent on one knee before him. It was an image that he wouldn’t forget any time soon.

“Does this work for you?” Geralt sneered.

“Oh yes,” Jaskier chuckled. “On you go, then.”

Geralt sighed and mumbled, “Will you marry me?”

“No.”

“No?” Geralt snapped. “But you said—”

“Say it like you mean it,” Jaskier demanded.

Geralt gritted his teeth in frustration. He looked close to throwing in the towel himself and just going home to Rivia to save himself the trouble. But he closed his eyes and took a deep breath to calm himself before opening them again and gently taking Jaskier’s hand into his own.

“Jaskier. Would you please, for my sake and yours, do me the honour of being my husband?”

Jaskier rubbed his chin thoughtfully for a moment before giving a careless shrug. “Alright! I don’t appreciate the veiled threat but it’ll do.”

“Thank the gods,” Geralt groaned, clambering back onto his feet. “Thank you.”

“No problem. I’ll give you a call once I’ve booked you a ticket to Oxenfurt. I’m afraid you’ll be flying economy with me. Not all of us are made of money, you know.” Jaskier turned to leave but Geralt grabbed his arm.

“Woah, hold up. Is that it?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“But we have work back at the office,” Geralt protested but Jaskier shook his head.

“Nah, I think I’ll take the rest of the day off. It’s been a very stressful morning and I have a suitcase to pack. I’m sure you understand.”

With that, Jaskier turned on his heel and left Geralt standing alone on the side of the busy road. If he was going to risk a prison sentence for this guy, he was going to use this situation to his advantage as much as possible.


	4. Chapter 4

Geralt wasn’t sure how much more of this he could take. He’d never flown economy before and he had absolutely no intention of ever doing so again. He was a tall bloke and even though Jaskier assured him that he had upgraded them to the seating with extra legroom, his knees pressed uncomfortably against the backrest of the passenger in front of him. The food was inedible (Geralt didn’t know what the hell it was supposed to be, but he wasn’t going to risk his life by finding out), and he suspected that his scotch—served in a plastic cup, of all things—had been watered down as well. Gods, even the windows seemed smaller back here. They hadn’t even landed in Oxenfurt yet and Geralt was ready to call it quits and just head home to Rivia.

 _Pull yourself together. You’ve been through much worse than this,_ he told himself. He thought of everything that he had worked for and sacrificed over the years. Wasn’t that worth fighting for? Surely he could handle two weeks of abject misery in the company of Jaskier and his parents in the arse end of nowhere.

Since there was so little room between their seats, Jaskier couldn’t help but elbow Geralt every time he moved. Their elbows bumped together several times as Jaskier retrieved folders, a notepad and a large bundle of papers from his satchel.

“Okay, so these are the questions that the immigration and naturalisation services are going to ask us,” said Jaskier, dumping the thick bundle of papers on the small plastic dinner tray in front of Geralt, almost knocking over his scotch in the process. “The good news is that I already know everything about you. The bad news is that you only have a few days to learn everything about me. So, you know...you should probably get studying.”

Geralt grunted and began to read the first page of the extensive list of questions. His frown deepened as he scanned the list. “You know all the answers to these questions about me?”

“Yup. Scary, isn’t it?” said Jaskier lightly, scribbling in one of his notebooks.

“It is a little unsettling,” Geralt admitted. Maybe a little flattering, as well, although he kept that thought to himself. “Okay, let’s see just how well you know me. What am I allergic to?”

“Grass pollen,” Jaskier replied immediately before muttering under his breath, “And the full spectrum of human emotion.”

“Hilarious,” Geralt sneered. “Although, I wouldn’t give up your day job, if I were you.”

“Well, hopefully by the end of this, I’ll either have my own office away from you or I’ll be in jail. Both of which are more appealing than continuing to work as your assistant,” Jaskier shot back.

Geralt rolled his eyes and looked at the list of questions again, picking one at random. “Here’s an interesting one: do you have any scars?”

“I’m pretty sure you’ve got a tattoo,” said Jaskier thoughtfully.

Geralt cocked an eyebrow at him. “Pretty sure?”

 _“I’m sure_ I’m sure,” Jaskier insisted. “I just haven’t had a proper look at it.”

“And when would you have had the opportunity to see this tattoo that I may or may not have?”

Jaskier’s ears turned pink. “Well, you don’t take off your shirt very often—obviously, since it’s not a particularly professional thing to do in the workplace—but there was that one time when Troydon spilled coffee on your shirt and you had to change into a fresh one before a big meeting with a prospective client. You were in a hurry and took your shirt off while I was in the office and…” Jaskier cleared his throat. “Well, I’m a gentleman and turned away, so I didn’t get a proper look at it.”

Geralt felt something akin to fondness blossom in the centre of his chest then. He gave Jaskier a small smile and mused, “I never took you for the bashful type.”

Jaskier snorted. “I’m really not. Most of the time, anyway. Which is something else you’re going to have to learn over the coming days. And while we’re on the subject of your tattoo, you’re going to have to tell me what it is.”

“Moving on,” Geralt grumbled, turning back to the questions.

“They’re going to ask me about it.”

“Next question,” Geralt continued, ignoring Jaskier’s query. “Whose place do we stay at, yours or mine? Well, that one’s easy. Mine.”

“And why would we stay at yours and not mine?” Jaskier challenged.

“Because I live in the Southern Gate district and you probably live in a squat near the city docks.”

“I’ll have you know that my shoebox flat is quite charming!” Jaskier insisted.

Geralt let out a derisive laugh. “I seriously doubt that.”

He closed the papers and took a large gulp of his cheap scotch. That was enough probing for one day, thanks very much. Geralt’s day continued to improve when he reached the luggage collection only to discover that his suitcase was missing.

“It can’t have just walked itself off of the aeroplane and disappeared, could it?” he raged. The bored-looking woman at the _Royal Griffin Airways_ help desk wasn’t ruffled by his outburst; no doubt she heard much the same complaints a hundred times a day. She sighed and typed on her computer for a few moments while Geralt stood with his arms crossed and tapping his foot impatiently waiting for an explanation.

“Looks like your luggage is in Oreton, sir,” she replied lazily.

 _“Oreton?”_ Geralt repeated angrily. “How the hell did my luggage end up on the opposite side of the continent?”

“Administrative error,” she shrugged.

“And what am I supposed to do without any clothes?”

The woman (Carol, according to her name tag) sighed heavily as though he were the one inconveniencing _her_ and he felt another surge of anger flare up inside of him. Carol scribbled a phone number onto a scrap of paper and slid it across the desk to him. “It’ll take a few days to get your luggage flown back here, we’ll give you a call when it arrives. Here’s the number to file a formal complaint. Enjoy your trip to Oxenfurt.”

Geralt snarled and crushed the scrap of paper in his fist before turning on his heel and marching over to Jaskier, who stood waiting for him with his suitcase by his side and two paper cups in hand.

“Hot chocolate?” he offered brightly.

Geralt pursed his lips but gratefully took the cup of hot chocolate from Jaskier’s outstretched hand. He took a sip from it and frowned. “What’s in this?”

“Salted caramel.”

“Why don’t you just buy a coffee like a normal person?” he grumbled before taking another sip. Jaskier rolled his eyes at him and tugged his wheeled suitcase towards the exit.

“Because I enjoy it, and I think you do too, even if you won’t admit it.” Jaskier took a swig from his cup then asked, “What’s the story with your luggage? By the bemused expression on your face, I’m going to assume that it’s not good.”

“There was a mix-up with my luggage and it was sent to Oreton by mistake.” Jaskier snorted and Geralt glared at him. “It’s not funny!”

“It’s not the end of the world, we can get you more clothes,” Jaskier assured him before giving him a sideways glance. “Which is probably a good thing. I’m assuming the only thing that you had packed was half a dozen identical suits.”

“What’s wrong with my clothes?” asked Geralt defensively.

“Your clothes are fine—if you’re going to the office,” said Jaskier. “You’re supposed to be on holiday and you’re dressed as though you’re headed to a job interview. If we’re going to have any hope of convincing my parents that we are a legit couple, you’re going to have to learn to relax a little.”

“It’s difficult to relax when we’ve got Dijkstra on our arse threatening jail time and deportation,” he muttered.

“Fair point,” Jaskier relented. “Okay, can you at least _pretend_ to be relaxed when you’re in my parents’ company? You can be your usual little ray of sunshine with me when we’re on our own.”

“I’ll try,” Geralt promised. “Only if you pretend to be less annoying.”

“Rude,” Jaskier huffed.

Jaskier tossed his empty cup into the nearest bin as they approached the arrivals lounge and made to grab Geralt’s hand, who immediately pulled his own away in surprise.

“What are you doing?” he demanded.

Jaskier drew him a withering look. “We’re supposed to be loved-up boyfriends. Lovey-dovey couples hold hands.”

Geralt looked at Jaskier’s outstretched hand as though it might bite him before he let out a resigned sigh and took it into his own. He couldn’t recall the last time he had held anyone’s hand—probably when he was a young boy, maybe his mother’s before she left. Geralt quickly pushed any thoughts of his mother aside and concentrated on how Jaskier’s hand felt warm and fit quite snugly in his own, Jaskier’s calloused, smooth fingertips pressed firmly against his skin.

“There they are,” said Jaskier, his voice thick with tension. “Oh, no…”

“What is it now?”

“Looks like the whole family are here to greet us.”

Geralt unconsciously gripped tighter onto Jaskier’s hand. “I thought that it was just going to be your parents.”

“So did I!” Jaskier cried. “Oh gods, what are they doing?”

Geralt followed Jaskier’s line of sight and saw a large group of brunettes waving furiously in their direction, several of them holding homemade signs above their heads. A tall, slender woman with long brown hair who could only be Jaskier’s mother had tears streaming down her cheeks as she held a large sign over her head that read, _Welcome home, Julian!_

Geralt frowned in confusion. “Julian?”

Jaskier made a disapproving sound when Geralt said the name. “Only my mother calls me Julian.”

“Hold up. I’ve been calling you Jaskier for years and it _isn’t even your name?”_

“It is!” Jaskier insisted. “Look, we’ll talk about it later. It’s time to put your game face on. Hiiiii mum!”

Jaskier dropped Geralt’s hand and hurried forward to greet his mother, who threw her arms around him and pulled him into a bone-crushing hug. Suddenly, Jaskier was swarmed with family members all desperate to hug him and kiss him. Geralt stood awkwardly off to the side on his own, watching on as Jaskier got swept up in the moment of the tearful reunion.

“Where’s dad?” asked Jaskier.

“Oh, you know your father, he’s always working,” laughed his mother, waving her hand dismissively.

“Never mind about him!” cried a small woman with curly grey hair. “Where’s your boy?”

“Hmm? Oh! Yes, of course. Geralt! Come meet my mother and grandmother.”

Geralt stepped forward with his hand out and a nervous smile on his face. When Jaskier’s grandmother caught sight of him, her eyes widened and she muttered, “Boy nothing. Jay, you could climb him like a tree!”

Jaskier ignored his grandmother’s shrewd observation. “Geralt, this is my mother, Marigold.”

 _“Marigold?_ Gods, you make me sound like an old woman,” his mother exclaimed. She took Geralt’s hand and smiled warmly at him. “Please, call me Mary.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” said Geralt.

He tensed when Mary pulled him into a tight hug and it took him a moment before he relaxed again and tentatively returned the hug, patting her lightly on the shoulder. When Mary released him, Jaskier’s grandmother grabbed his hand and gave it a firm shake.

“And this is my grandmother, Violet,” said Jaskier fondly. “We all call her Grammy.”

“Jaskier has said a lot about you,” said Geralt.

“Likewise,” she said with a sweetness that didn’t meet her icy blue eyes. “And what do you prefer to be called: Geralt, or The Butcher? Because we’ve heard it both ways. Actually, we’ve heard it _lots_ of ways…”

“Grammy…” Mary warned.

“Oh, he knows that I’m only kidding!” she chuckled, patting Geralt gingerly on the forearm.

“Of course she is,” Geralt murmured. Evidently, Jaskier’s grandmother was still a bit miffed that her grandson almost missed her birthday party. “Thank you for allowing me to be a part of the upcoming celebrations.”

“You’re welcome,” said Grammy. “We’re thrilled to have you! Come on, let’s get you two back to the fort.”

Grammy hooked hers and Jaskier’s arms together and marched on ahead, chatting animatedly with him as Geralt was left to follow them and the rest of the Pankratz clan, dragging along (to his annoyance) Jaskier’s abandoned suitcase. As they exited the airport, Geralt and Jaskier wished goodbye to the extended family before being ushered to Mary’s car, with the ‘happy couple’ sitting in the back while Grammy rode shotgun. As they drove through the picturesque town of Oxenfurt, Geralt couldn’t help but notice a familiar name appearing up and down the local high street: beside _Pankratz Photography_ was _Pankratz Parcel & Post,_ which was directly across the road from another shop that bore the sign _Oxenfurt Souvenirs—The Pankratz Collection._

Geralt nudged Jaskier and hissed, “You didn’t tell me about all of the family businesses... _dear.”_

“He’s probably just being modest!” said Grammy cheerfully.

Jaskier looked embarrassed, shrugged and mouthed ‘we’ll talk about it later’ before turning away to look out of his window again. The rest of the journey passed in silence but it wasn’t long before they approached the hotel overlooking the harbour that Geralt had booked to stay in for the fortnight.

Thank the gods, he thought. He couldn’t wait to get into his room, draw the curtains and pretend that he was anywhere else but here. But rather than stop, Mary drove straight past the hotel without slowing down.

“Sorry, that’s our hotel right there,” Geralt pointed out but Mary just laughed.

“Oh, you boys aren’t staying at a hotel! We cancelled your reservation. Family doesn’t stay at hotels. You’re going to stay at our home.”

“Great,” Geralt replied through gritted teeth. “Just great.”

Jaskier looked as thrilled as Geralt felt at the prospect of bringing him to his family home. When Mary parked the car at the harbour, Jaskier slammed the door shut as he exited it and gave his suitcase a kick in frustration before dragging it towards the waterfront. Geralt looked around the deserted harbour with confusion.

“Where’s your parents’ house?” he asked.

“Over there,” said Jaskier, pointing across the water to a tree-covered island in the distance. Geralt stopped dead in his tracks and watched as Jaskier, Grammy and Mary boarded a small boat with the name _Rosemary and Thyme_ painted in gold letters on the hull. As Jaskier began to untie the rope tethering the boat to the harbour, he frowned when he noticed Geralt still standing on the pier. “Aren’t you coming aboard?”

Geralt didn’t move. He couldn’t. His legs seemed to be fused to the wooden planks beneath his feet. Thankfully, Mary and Grammy were too busy chatting to one another to notice that Geralt hadn’t yet boarded the vessel. Geralt looked around the harbour, feeling hopeless.

“Can’t I just drive and meet you there?”

“It’s an island,” Jaskier replied flatly. When Geralt remained rooted to the spot, Jaskier’s expression softened and he clambered back onto the harbour. “Unless you have an amphibious vehicle, I’m afraid that the only way you’re getting there is on this boat.”

“You know that I can’t swim,” Geralt whispered.

“Hence, the boat,” Jaskier smiled. He slipped his hand into Geralt’s and gave it a slight squeeze. “I swear on my Grammy’s life that you’ll be fine. Come on, we’ll get you a life jacket.”

Reluctantly, Geralt followed. His hands were shaking so badly that Jaskier took pity on him and helped him put his life jacket on, much to the amusement of Mary and Grammy, who watched them keenly. The journey by boat didn’t take long but it was the longest fifteen minutes of Geralt’s life. Although the boat cut through the calm sea water like a knife through butter, he clung to the side railing for dear life. When the boat dipped suddenly, splashing water all over them, Mary and Grammy whooped and laughed while Geralt tried his best not to scream. Jaskier gave him a reassuring pat on the knee and told him that he was doing great. Although it was a barefaced lie, Geralt still appreciated him saying it. He started to relax when the boat began to slow down and Grammy told them that they were almost home. As they sailed past a thicket of trees and rounded a corner, a beautiful limestone estate house came into view.

“Home sweet home!” cried Grammy.

Geralt looked sharply at Jaskier. “You live _here?”_

Jaskier shrugged. “Yeah, I suppose so.”

As they disembarked, Grammy and Mary walked ahead while Jaskier and Geralt took their time following them along the pier and up the steep hill towards the grand manor. Geralt took in his new and luxurious surroundings: as they entered the gardens, they passed an ancient, gnarled oak tree which had evidence of a large treehouse poking out of its leafy branches. He also noticed stables in the distance, and two horses trotting across an expansive paddock.

“Why did you tell me that you were poor?” asked Geralt with an accusatory tone.

“I didn’t tell you that I was poor,” Jaskier argued.

“Then why didn’t you tell me that you were rich?”

“I’m not. My parents are rich,” said Jaskier. “There’s a difference.”

Geralt grunted. “That’s something only rich people say.”

“Jaskier!”

Geralt and Jaskier looked up towards the manor and saw a pretty girl with chestnut brown hair waving at them from one of the balconies. Jaskier grimaced but he waved back, “Hi, Anna!”

“Who’s that?” asked Geralt.

“One of the neighbours,” he said darkly. “Mum! Why is Anna up at the house?”

“Oh, we just thought we’d have a little welcome home party for you!” she called over her shoulder.

“How little?” asked Jaskier nervously.

“Just fifty of our closest friends and neighbours,” answered Grammy. “They’re all very excited to meet you, Geralt!”

Geralt and Jaskier shared a worried look.

“It’s okay, we’re going to get through this,” said Jaskier. Geralt, however, wasn’t convinced by Jaskier’s assurances.

“Are you saying that for my benefit or yours?”

“Both,” he admitted.

The moment they entered the front door, they were swarmed with wellwishers, people hugging Jaskier and strangers greeting Geralt with warm handshakes. He rarely walked into any room to such a warm reception, and it was a little unsettling. The interior of the house was as Geralt expected: grandeur from head to toe with expensive silk furnishings and wooden panellings on the walls adorned with portraits of Pankratz ancestors. When he and Jaskier finally had a moment to themselves, Geralt pulled him to a quiet corner to talk.

“Why didn’t you tell me that your family are some sort of Redanian aristocracy?” he hissed.

“How could I? We were in the middle of talking about you for the last three years,” Jaskier retorted.

Geralt sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I thought we were supposed to be pretending to be a happy couple? We’re not doing a great job if we’re caught arguing all of the time.”

“Oh, I can pretend to be the doting boyfriend, no problem!” Jaskier exclaimed. “But that would require you to stop staring daggers at me at every opportunity!”

“Well, maybe if you didn’t act like such an insufferable idiot all of the time…”

Jaskier scoffed. “Speak for yourself.”

Geralt threw his hands up in the air in frustration. “That’s it!” You’re fired.”

“What? You can’t do that!” Jaskier protested.

“I just did,” Geralt snarled. Jaskier’s eyes narrowed and he jabbed Geralt in the chest with his index finger.

“Fine! Go back to Rivia and let me get on with the rest of my life in peace! This plan was never going to work anyway.”

“There’s the happy couple!” cried Mary, approaching the bickering pair with two champagne flutes. “What are you two doing hidden in a dark corner? Everyone’s waiting for you!” Her smile faltered when she saw their angry expressions. “Is everything alright?”

“Everything’s fine,” Jaskier assured her, taking the proffered glasses from his mother’s hands and passing one to Geralt. “We’re just tired from the flight.”

Geralt still felt anger and frustration simmering beneath the surface of his skin, threatening to boil over, but he cleared his throat and nodded in agreement. “Yes, it’s been a long day.”

Mary bit her lip. “Oh, I never even considered that! Maybe organising this party wasn’t such a good idea after all.”

“It’s fine, Mum.” Jaskier rubbed Mary’s forearm and smiled at her. “Honestly, we really appreciate all of the effort you’ve put into organising this.”

Geralt and Jaskier promised to continue their argument later. In the meantime, they put on their best fake smiles and schmoozed with all of the guests, often having to think on their feet when questions about their relationship came up.

“So who asked who out first?” asked one guest.

“I did,” Jaskier and Geralt answered in unison, sparking laughter from those listening in.

“Where did you go on your first date?” queried another.

“I took him to dinner at _The Black Lily,”_ Geralt answered immediately. “The service there is excellent. I highly recommend it if you ever visit Tretogor.”

“And then I took him to the Orchestra in Coppertown,” Jaskier chipped in. “Geralt _loves_ the theatre, don’t you, love?”

“Yes...buttercup.” Geralt smirked at Jaskier’s shocked expression when he called him the embarrassing pet name. If he had to put up with Jaskier calling him ‘love’ and ‘dear’ at every given opportunity, Geralt could have his fun too and come up with some fun pet names of his own. A playful smile crept across Jaskier’s face then as though to say ‘game on’, and throughout the evening, they called each other all manner of creative and cringeworthy names.

After calling each other honey, baby, little lark and my beloved (Geralt couldn’t help but choke on his drink with laughter when Jaskier called him that), he was introduced to an elderly but predictably wealthy-looking couple called the Bumblers. The husband, Edmund, was quizzing Jaskier about working in Tretogor while Geralt watched silently, sipping his drink. Edmund and his wife, Edwina, looked impressed with what Jaskier had to say.

“Working in publishing sounds fascinating!” said Edmund interestedly. “Your parents must be so proud of you.”

“Yeah, sure they are,” Jaskier laughed nervously. Suddenly, a large hand clapped Jaskier’s shoulder and his body tensed.

“Why don’t you tell us exactly what a book editor does besides taking writers out to lunch and getting them hammered?” sneered the tall man with brown and grey streaked hair.

“Oh, that sounds like fun!” Edwina giggled. “No wonder you like being an editor.”

“Oh, Jaskier isn’t an editor, he’s an editor’s assistant,” the man replied before nodding to Geralt. “Gerald here is the editor.”

“Geralt,” he corrected him before holding out his hand. “And you are..?”

Jaskier sighed. “Geralt, this is my father, Albert.”

“My friends call me Al,” he said, taking Geralt’s hand and giving it a firm shake.

“Pleasure to meet you, Albert.”

A smirk flitted across Albert’s face and he dropped Geralt’s hand. Edwina frowned in confusion and pointed at Geralt, “So, you’re actually…”

“Jaskier’s boss,” Albert chipped in. “Yes, he is.”

“Huh. How about that.”

An awkward silence followed as father and son glared at each other. The Bumblers, sensing that it was time for them to exit this conversation, quickly excused themselves and scurried towards the buffet at the opposite end of the room. Geralt, however, remained by Jaskier’s side.

“Was that really necessary?” Jaskier kept his voice low but he couldn’t disguise the anger in his voice. Albert gave a careless shrug.

“What?” he replied innocently. “I’m only telling them the truth, aren’t I?”

He raised his empty whisky glass and said that he needed a refill before sauntering away from the bemused pair.

“Charming,” Geralt grunted.

“Yeah, he’s always like that,” Jaskier muttered. “Sorry about that.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong, so you’ve nothing to apologise for,” Geralt assured him. “Although, I think it’s pretty obvious that you take after your mother more in the personality department.”

Jaskier gave him a weak smile, “I think that’s the first time you’ve ever genuinely complimented me on anything.”

“Yeah? Well, don’t get used to it,” Geralt joked. “Come on, let’s get another drink. I think we’ve earned it.”

The rest of the evening passed without incident and thankfully, they didn’t cross paths with Jaskier’s father again. When the party started to wind down, Jaskier and Geralt excused themselves for the evening and Mary showed them to their bedroom.

“We’re sharing a room?” asked Geralt uncertainly.

Mary gave a chuckle. “Oh, my dear. We aren’t under any illusions that you and Jaskier don’t sleep in the same bed. He’ll sleep in here with you.”

Geralt cast a wary eye at the king-sized bed that he and his assistant were expected to share. “Brilliant.”

“It can get a bit chilly in here at night,” said Grammy, entering the room with a large patchwork quilt in her arms. “So if you need it, use this.” She thrust it into Geralt’s hands and gave him a licentious wink. “It’s got special powers.”

“Dare I ask?” said Geralt cautiously.

“We call it ‘the babymaker’,” Grammy beamed.

“Okay! We’ll be _extra_ careful with that,” said Jaskier hurriedly, snatching the quilt from Geralt and ushering his mother and grandmother out of the room. “Well, we best turn in for the night. It’s been quite the evening, hasn’t it? Goodnight!”

“Goodnight, boys!” Mary called out as Jaskier slammed the door in her face.

He sighed and bumped his forehead against the door. “One day down, thirteen more to go. Easy-peasy.”

“So...I take that you haven’t been home very often,” Geralt ventured as he began to strip out of his clothes. Jaskier turned around and glared at him.

“Well, I haven’t had a lot of holiday time in the last three years,” he complained, tossing the ‘babymaker’ quilt into the far corner of the room.

“Stop your whining. You’re here now, aren’t you?” Geralt chastised, peeling off his shirt and tossing it onto the floor. Jaskier’s eyes lingered on his bare chest for a long moment before he busied himself with unpacking his suitcase.

“Yes, I suppose you’re right.” Jaskier pulled his toothbrush out of his travel bag and paused. “What you said earlier, about firing me…”

“I was just angry,” said Geralt quickly. “I didn’t mean it.”

Geralt noticed that Jaskier worried his lip the same way that his mother did. “So, you still want to go through with this?”

“I’m game if you are.”

Jaskier thought in silent contemplation for a moment before nodding in agreement. As Jaskier disappeared into the bathroom, he called smugly over his shoulder, “I knew that you had a tattoo” before closing the door behind him. Geralt unconsciously rubbed the tattoo of the white wolf branded across his heart before letting out a long sigh of relief. As stressful as this day had been, he was still glad that Jaskier was on board with the plan. When Jaskier re-entered the room in an old t-shirt and boxers, he glanced between Geralt and the bed.

“Right, what are the sleeping arrangements?” he asked.

“Well, I expect that you’ll take the couch,” said Geralt.

“And why would I take the couch?” Jaskier huffed. “This is my bedroom!”

“I’m a guest!” Geralt argued, already pulling back the covers and climbing into the bed. “Besides, it’s not like I could fit on that couch. I’m too big. There should be plenty of room for you, though.”

“Oh, no you don’t!” Jaskier marched over to the other side of the bed and slipped under the covers beside Geralt, who drew him an incredulous look.

“What are you doing?”

“What does it look like?” Jaskier replied, fluffing his pillows before flopping down onto the mattress, wriggling like a worm to make himself more comfortable.

“Get out of the bed,” Geralt demanded.

“No.” Jaskier switched off the lamp on his side of the bed and settled in for the night.

“Jaskier…” he warned.

“Geralt…” Jaskier teased.

Geralt shook his head and crossed his arms. “I’m not moving.”

“Fine. Neither am I.”

“Fine.”

“FINE.”

A long silence followed but neither man would relent. Finally, Geralt sighed and turned his back on Jaskier, switched off the lamp at his side of the bed and plunged the room into welcome darkness.

“Goodnight,” he mumbled.

After a long pause, Jaskier replied quietly, “Goodnight...dear.”

Geralt huffed out a small laugh and closed his eyes. Today had been one of the longest days of his life, and he had thirteen more of them to look forward to. It was a strange position to be in because it was simultaneously annoying and reassuring to have Jaskier by his side through it all. It surprised him how welcoming Jaskier’s family had been, too: his mother had literally welcomed him into the family with open arms, and Grammy—who had been cool with him on initially meeting Geralt—had warmed to him as the day had worn on. Gods, she had even gifted them her special ‘babymaker’ blanket. Jaskier’s father, on the hand...well, there was obviously more to that story, but as Geralt listened to Jaskier’s soft snores, he figured that now wasn’t the best time to query him on it. There was always tomorrow.


	5. Chapter 5

When Jaskier woke early the next morning, it took him a few seconds to remember where he was. Curled up in his childhood bed with the sunlight pouring through the glass balcony door and—Jaskier choked—a strong, muscular arm wrapped snugly around his waist. Jaskier lay frozen, afraid to move as he realised that Geralt—his boss, for gods’ sake—had cuddled into him at some point during the night. He could feel the warm puffs of Geralt’s breaths tickle the back of his neck while stray white hairs tickled his nose and cheek. Just when he thought that his morning couldn’t get any worse, Geralt sighed and shifted, pressing his hips against Jaskier’s rear and—

“No,” he whimpered to himself as he felt the familiar ache between his legs begin to grow. Never mind going to jail for fraud; if Geralt woke up like this, Jaskier dared not think how he’d react if he saw _that._ Damn his manhood for betraying him at the worst possible time. Suddenly, there was a loud knock at the door and Geralt stirred.

“Jaskier, answer the phone,” he mumbled, still half-asleep, releasing his grip on Jaskier and turning over. Taking his chance, Jaskier slipped out of bed and headed towards the door, paused, then hurried over to the corner of the room to retrieve his grandmother’s patchwork quilt before tossing it over the bed again. Geralt blinked sleepily as someone knocked on the door again and this time, they heard Jaskier’s mother call out to them.

“Rise and shine, sleepy heads!” her muffled voice cried. “I brought you breakfast!”

Geralt sat up suddenly and looked around the room in a confused panic before his shoulders sagged. “Fuck. I forgot I was here.” Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he frowned when he caught sight of Jaskier and his tented boxers. “What the hell, Jaskier?”

“I’m sorry, it’s the morning!” he hissed, pulling on a pair of jeans and tucking his erection into the waistband. “Don’t tell me it doesn’t happen to you, too.”

“Are you decent?” his mother called. “Can I come in?”

“Just a second!” Jaskier cried, zipping up his jeans and padding over to the bedroom door. Pulling open the door, he was greeted with his mother, beaming at him, holding a large tray with a continental breakfast. “Morning, mum.”

“Good morning, love. Did you sleep well?” Mary breezed into the room before Jaskier could answer and beelined straight for Geralt’s bedside. “Morning, Geralt! How are you feeling today? Well rested, I hope.”

“Uh, yeah,” Geralt replied thickly, pressing his back against the headboard and taking the proffered tray from Mary’s hands. “Oh, you didn’t have to do this…”

“I know, but I wanted to,” she smiled. “Now, Jaskier told me what happened to your suitcase. We can’t have you walking around with just the clothes on your back, so Grammy and I are taking you on a shopping trip after breakfast. Our treat.”

Geralt shook his head. “There’s really no need…”

“I know, but I _want_ to,” she stressed. She pressed a quick kiss to Jaskier’s cheek and strode out of the room. “Grammy and I will be waiting downstairs for you when you’re ready!”

When Jaskier closed the bedroom door behind her, Geralt mused, “I see where your inability to listen to anything that I have to say comes from.”

“Be nice,” Jaskier chided, grabbing the cup of hot chocolate from the tray. “And she has a point: you can’t wear one set of clothes the entire time you’re here—unless you’d like to borrow some of mine?”

“I doubt they’d fit me.”

  
Tossing off the bedcovers he rose to his feet, stretched and yawned. The taut muscles on his broad, pale shoulders twisted as he stretched, cracking his joints in the process. Jaskier caught himself staring and quickly turned away before Geralt noticed. “You want to grab a shower first?”

When Geralt closed the bathroom door behind him, Jaskier sat down on the edge of his bed with his head in his hands. Great. He hadn’t even finished his breakfast and he’d already flashed his boner at Geralt. He hadn’t lied when he blamed it on a natural bodily function that he had no control over, but it didn’t help that Geralt, for all his faults, also happened to be a physical specimen of a man. It was like he was sculpted from marble, all bulging muscles with milky pale skin and big, powerful hands. Definitely Jaskier’s type. Except for the fact that he was his boss. And he was an insufferable prick most of the time.

But not all of the time, as he had discovered to his surprise. Despite their bickering, Geralt had made last night’s party bearable, even fun. Who’d have thought that his ruthless boss had a sense of humour? And when his father had pulled his usual stunt of trying to humiliate and undermine Jaskier in front of others, it felt good to have Geralt by his side. Geralt liked to act all stoic and unfeeling, especially in front of his subordinates. Jaskier supposed that it came with the territory; the publishing world was a cut-throat industry, and Geralt didn’t earn the moniker Butcher of Blaviken by playing it kind or fair. You looked at Geralt Haute-Bellegarde and the last word that came to mind was vulnerable, yet glimmers of vulnerability had shone through yesterday.

The sound of the shower being switched off pulled Jaskier from his daydream and a moment later, Geralt re-entered the room with just a fluffy white towel slung low across his waist. His body was still damp, little beads of water glistening on his skin, flushed from the hot shower. Geralt ran his fingers through his damp hair, pushing it out of his face. “Bathroom’s free.”

Jaskier caught himself staring again, only this time he was pretty sure by the amused smile on Geralt’s face he had noticed him doing it. Jaskier hurried past Geralt, his ears hot with embarrassment and something else that he’d rather not verbalise. Perhaps this holiday was going to be more challenging than he thought. When Jaskier re-entered the bedroom after a much-needed cold shower, Geralt was dressed in his handsome charcoal suit again and was draining the cup of coffee his mother had made for him.

“There isn’t any way that I can talk your mother out of this shopping trip, is there?” he asked, placing the empty cup back onto the tray.

“Nope. It’ll be easier just to roll with it,” Jaskier advised. “My mum and grammy are just using this as an excuse to get to know you better.”

“I figured as much.”

“Well, see it as an opportunity to learn about my family. It’ll all come in handy during the interview.”

Geralt sighed and pulled on his suit jacket. “Fair point.”

“Just...try to be nice. Please?” asked Jaskier. Geralt drew him an incredulous look.

“I can be nice when I want to be, you know,” he replied testily.

“Fine. Prove it.”

Geralt’s eyes narrowed at the challenge. “You know what? I’m going to charm them so much that they’ll be _begging_ me to marry you.”

Jaskier laughed as Geralt strode from the room like a man on a mission. His mother might be a soft touch but his grandmother, however sweet and innocent she appeared to be, didn’t suffer fools gladly. After wishing his mother and grandmother a fun day shopping, Jaskier and his father stood on the pier and waved them off as they boarded the boat and sailed for the shore with a slightly less confident-looking Geralt in tow.

“Your boyfriend doesn’t seem keen on the water,” Albert mused. “I guess we won’t be taking him out on any sailing trips any time soon.”

“I suppose not,” Jaskier agreed. Not that they planned to do any such thing after they headed back to Tretogor. “You made quite the first impression on him yesterday, father. Really welcoming.”

“Well, how was I supposed to react? You show up here after all this time with a man you said that you hated, and now he’s your _boyfriend?”_

“I know what I said before but...look, we just got here and you won’t even give him a chance,” Jaskier argued. “Why don’t you try getting to know him first before writing him off?”

“I just never figured you the type of man who slept his way to the middle,” Albert sneered.

Albert’s words struck Jaskier in the gut as hard as a fist would have. But he kept his composure and said as evenly as possible, “Whatever you may think of me, I’ll have you know that Geralt is one of the most respected editors in our industry—”

“He’s your meal ticket,” Albert retorted. “And you brought him home to meet your mother.”

“No, he’s not my meal ticket, Dad,” Jaskier shot back. “He’s my fiance.”

Albert blinked. “What did you say?”

“You heard me,” said Jaskier, stomping past him. “I’m getting married.”

* * *

“How are you getting on, Geralt?” Mary called.

“I’m fine!”

Geralt looked at himself in the mirror and shook his head. When he had grudgingly agreed to go on this shopping trip, he thought that he would be the one picking his own clothes. But Mary and Grammy had hemmed and hawed at everything he had suggested.

“Well, it looks nice,” Mary would say cautiously. “But wouldn’t you prefer something a bit...brighter, perhaps?”

“Black’s the only colour I wear,” Geralt had informed them.

“Well, that may be, but you look like you’re going to a funeral,” said Grammy before thrusting a new outfit for him to try into his hands.

So here he was, looking at his reflection in the changing room mirror and a stranger glared back at him. Donning an alpaca wool crew neck jumper with soft cotton slacks and a pair of tan brogues, he looked like one of those blokes from menswear catalogues. Grammy’s head popped through the curtain and she smiled.

“Oh my, you look so handsome!” she gushed.

Geralt wasn’t so sure. “I suppose it looks okay. They don’t have the same thing in black, do they?”

“No.” Grammy replied shortly, snatching the tags from the jumper’s sleeve and trouser’s waistband. “I’ll go pay for these just now. You can wear them out of the shop!”

Before Geralt could protest, Grammy was gone. To make matters worse, the two women had insisted on paying for everything themselves. They kept calling it ‘their treat’ and despite Geralt's protestations, come the end of the day they had purchased him a brand new wardrobe. Geralt wasn’t used to being fussed over like this. Yes, he had Jaskier at his beck and call, but he was paid to do it. Mary and Grammy had no good reason to go to such trouble for him other than they were nice. But as embarrassing as it was to have the Pankratz women shower him with kindness, deep down, he was rather enjoying it. He couldn’t recall his own mother doing any such thing for him. Certainly not his Uncle Vesemir, who was a good man but not necessarily the most affectionate person. If he’d been fortunate enough to have a family like this, he’d never have left home. Which made it all the more curious that Jaskier had.

When they finally returned to the island early in the evening, Jaskier was waiting for them on the pier. Geralt could tell by the sour expression on Jaskier’s face that his day hadn’t been anywhere near as enjoyable as his own. As they docked the boat and disembarked, Jaskier helped Geralt onto the pier before pulling him close and whispering in his ear.

“My dad knows that we’re engaged.”

Geralt’s eyes widened with shock. _“What?_ I thought we’d agreed to tell them together!”

“I know, I’m sorry,” he grumbled. “We’ll need to tell my mum and grammy now before he does.”

“Right now?” Geralt hissed. “I’ve barely stepped foot on dry land, for fuck’s sake!”

“What are you two whispering about?” asked Grammy, still passing shopping bags out of the boat to Mary on the pier. Jaskier sighed, took Geralt’s hand in his own and turned to face his mother and grandmother.

“Geralt and I have an important announcement to make…”

Mary gasped and dropped the shopping bags. “Oh my gods, you’re getting married, aren’t you?”

Jaskier blinked and stammered, “Umm...yes, actually. How did you know?”

“I _knew_ it!” cried Grammy, punching the air. “Praise be to Kreve. Didn’t I tell you, Mary? You owe me ten Crowns.”

“Oh, I’m so happy for both of you,” Mary wept, pulling both men into an awkward three-way hug. Grammy clambered off of the boat as quickly as she could and joined the embrace, throwing her arms around Geralt from behind.

“I just knew there was something else going on,” said Grammy excitedly, squeezing Geralt as hard as she could. “Jaskier _never_ brings anybody home unless they’re important. Gods, the last person he brought back here was Pris and that was _years_ ago!”

“Grammy…” Jaskier groaned, sounding embarrassed.

If Geralt wasn’t accustomed to human contact, he certainly wasn’t used to having small and surprisingly strong elderly women hug him from the rear. He was relieved when Grammy finally released him from her vice-like grip and patted him on the back.

“Congratulations to you both. Oh, I’m so excited! We haven’t had a wedding in a few years. I’ll go grab the champagne.”

As Grammy hurried back towards the house muttering to herself about all of the wedding preparations, Mary pulled back and wiped tears from her eyes. “This is such wonderful news. Wait ‘til we tell your father. He’s going to be so happy!”

Mary grabbed a couple of the shopping bags and followed Grammy back towards the house with a definite spring in her step. Geralt waited until she was well out of earshot before turning back to Jaskier.

“What now?”

Jaskier gave an unenthusiastic shrug. “Champagne, I suppose.”

What was supposed to be an amicable celebratory dinner with Jaskier’s family was made incredibly awkward by Albert’s angry side glances in the direction of the ‘happy couple’ as they ate their meals. What made it even worse was Grammy and Mary’s probing questions for Geralt and Jaskier about how they came to be engaged. With each question, Jaskier looked increasingly uncomfortable, shifting in his seat and moving his food about the plate without eating any of it.

“Why don’t you have engagement rings?” asked Grammy curiously.

Geralt glanced at Jaskier for an explanation and he shrugged in response. “It was a spur of the moment decision. We haven’t gotten around to getting them yet.”

Mary and Grammy shared a silent look between themselves before Mary asked, “Well, you’ll have to tell us the story.”

“What story?”

“How you got engaged!” she cried. “Who proposed to who?”

“How a man proposes says a lot about his character,” Grammy declared.

“There’s not much to say,” Jaskier replied testily. “I asked him to marry me. He said yes. That’s about it.”

Mary and Grammy looked crestfallen at this paltry description. Geralt felt a stab of annoyance at Jaskier’s behaviour. Sure, the relationship was fake, but he could at least take his own advice and make an effort to pretend that it was real. Geralt cleared his throat to get everyone’s attention.

“It wasn’t quite that simple, buttercup,” he argued, smiling at an irritable Jaskier. “It was actually very romantic.” Mary and Grammy perked up at those words, so Geralt continued. “We were celebrating our first anniversary together…”

“Ooh,” said Grammy and Mary in unison.

“...And I knew that he’d been dying to ask me to marry him, but for some reason, his courage always seemed to fail him. Don’t ask me why, I would have said yes in a heartbeat. Maybe he thought that he wasn’t good enough for me. Maybe he thought I’d turn him down,” Jaskier gave him a warning look but Geralt pressed on. “But on the night of our anniversary, after he’d cooked me a romantic candlelit dinner, he got down on his knees—”

“One knee,” Jaskier quickly corrected him.

“—and he sang the most _beautiful_ song to me.”

“He didn’t!” breathed Grammy, clutching her handkerchief to her chest.

“He did,” grinned Geralt. For added effect, he placed his hand over Jaskier’s clenched fist. “Of course, I said yes.”

“Sing it to us, Jaskier,” Mary pleaded. “I’d love to hear it.”

“No,” he replied quickly. “Absolutely not.”

“Oh, go on,” Grammy pressed. “Sing it for me.”

“Urgh. Maybe later…”

“What if I’m dead later?” she pouted. “I’m very old, you know!”

“I don’t even have a guitar!” he argued desperately.

“You played the guitar?” she exclaimed.

“I never knew that you were such a romantic,” Mary gushed.

Albert rolled his eyes, tossed his napkin onto the dining room table and rose to his feet. “If you will excuse me, I think I’ve heard quite enough.”

Mary’s head snapped towards her husband and she frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Albert drew her an incredulous look. “For the last three years, we’ve heard nothing but how awful this man is from our son. But now we’re expected to ignore all of that and welcome him into the family with open arms? No offence.”

“None taken,” Geralt grumbled.

“Albert,” Grammy hissed. “Mind your manners. We’re in the middle of our dinner, for pity’s sake!”

“You know what? I think I’ve had my fill of wedding talk too,” said Jaskier loudly, pushing his dinner plate away. “I’m feeling tired, I think I’m just going to head to bed. Goodnight.”

“But you haven’t sang the song yet!” cried Grammy.

“I’ll sing it later!” he snapped, already marching away from the dinner table.

“Julian, come back!” Mary threw her own napkin onto the dinner table in anger.

“Now you’ve done it. Honestly, when are you going to learn to keep that big gob of yours shut?”

“I’m just telling it like it is!” Albert argued.

“Well, I’d rather you didn’t!” she spat back. “We’ll be lucky if he doesn’t pack his bags and leave after the way you’ve treated him and Geralt!”

As the argument between Albert and Mary erupted, Grammy leaned over to Geralt and whispered in his ear, “It’s probably a good time for you to leave.”

“I think you’re right,” he nodded. Albert and Mary continued to bellow across the table at one another, having seemingly forgotten that they had an audience.

“You better go check on Jay,” Grammy suggested patting him on the forearm. “He’ll be wanting to see you.”

Geralt very much doubted that. He slipped out of the dining room as the argument got into full swing and Grammy drained the last of her champagne from her glass. Clearly, it didn’t matter how much money or power you had at your disposal, the super rich were just as prone to quarrelling as everyone else. Heading towards their bedroom, he knocked on the door before entering and was surprised to find the room empty. He stepped out onto the balcony, the cool night air raising goosebumps on his flesh, unsure of whether he should keep looking for Jaskier or just to wait here for him to come back in his own time. Just as he was about to head back into the warmth of the bedroom, he paused. Although the expansive gardens were shrouded in darkness, the unmistakable sound of a guitar was playing in the distance. He turned and squinted his eyes into the blackness and noticed a faint yellow light emitting from the old oak tree where the treehouse was hidden.

Ignoring the shouts of Albert and Mary echoing through the house, Geralt hurried out of the front door and down the sloping grass garden towards the treehouse hidden amongst the dense foliage. As he approached, the mournful sound of the guitar grew louder, and Geralt knew that he had found his faux fiance. He took his time climbing the rickety ladder, not entirely convinced that it could take his weight, but he made it to the top in one piece. Knocking on the wooden hatch, it creaked as he pushed it open.

“Go away,” Jaskier called out in a sad voice. Instead of leaving, Geralt climbed inside the small treehouse. There was barely enough room for him to fit through the hatch, and when he got to his feet he had to stoop low or else the top of his head would scrape across the ceiling. Jaskier sat in the corner of the room atop a pile of battered cushions and blankets with an acoustic guitar on his lap and a woeful expression on his face. “I told you to go away.”

“You should know by now that I rarely listen to anything that you have to say,” Geralt joked.

He sat down next to Jaskier in the cramped little hideaway and since Jaskier didn’t protest, he took a moment to take in his new surroundings. While the space was small, it bore all of the hallmarks that this was Jaskier’s sanctuary: a flimsy, battered bookcase had been pushed against the opposite wall and was stuffed full of well-read, dog-eared books. The bare walls were covered in faded, weather-beaten posters of Le Papillon (Jaskier’s favourite singer as a teenager, he presumed) and on a low shelf, he noticed that Jaskier had placed seashells, knick-knacks and a couple of empty beer bottles with dried flowers in them. Geralt turned to Jaskier, who avoided his gaze.

“I didn’t know you played,” he said, nodding to the guitar.

“You never asked,” Jaskier replied shortly.

That was a fair point. “Do you sing?”

“What do you want, Geralt?” Jaskier sighed.

“I just came to say that I might have gotten a bit carried away with my storytelling.”

“Is that your lame attempt at an apology?”

Geralt shrugged. “Kind of, yeah.” Jaskier rolled his eyes and Geralt continued, “I’ll admit, I was having a bit of fun making up the engagement story. But I didn’t think it would turn into a full-blown argument between your parents.”

“I know you didn’t do it on purpose,” said Jaskier quietly. “Don’t worry about it. My parents...my dad...it’s complicated.”

Geralt had figured as much. “I get the impression that your dad isn’t too keen on me.”

Jaskier sighed and lowered his guitar. “Don’t take it personally. He’s like that with everyone.”

“You most of all?” Geralt chanced. He took Jaskier’s silence as a confirmation and asked, “So, what’s the story with you and your dad?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Jaskier muttered.

“Well, you’re the one that said that we needed to learn all of these things about each other,” he argued.

“Not about this.”

“But if Dijkstra asks about it—”

“I said no, Geralt,” Jaskier snapped.

Geralt wondered if it was better just to give Jaskier space to cool off, but then Grammy had asked him to check up on him, and he didn’t much fancy returning to the house and risk walking into the middle of Mary and Albert fighting. And as much as he loathed to admit it, he hated seeing Jaskier look so miserable.

“My first ever gig was Valdo Marx,” he began. “I was fifteen. I drank too much mead and my Uncle Vesemir had to come pick me up before the end of the show. It was one of the most embarrassing moments of my life.”

Jaskier raised his eyebrows in surprise but said nothing, so Geralt continued. “I’m fluent in Troll, although I rarely have occasion to use it. I like to meditate because it helps me relax when I’m angry or frustrated, especially with work.” Geralt wracked his brain for other facts about himself to share. “I like horses, but I’ve never had the chance to ride one. I hate the rain. And although I was born in Rivia, I was actually raised in Kaedwen with my uncle.”

Jaskier frowned. “What’s the Rivian accent all about, then?”

“Sounds more respectable and trustworthy in my line of work,” he admitted with a sad smile.

“Sadly, that makes a lot of sense.” Jaskier looked expectantly at Geralt. “What else?”

“I don’t like flowers because they remind me of funerals. I’ve never played a video game,” Geralt blushed as he admitted, “I haven’t slept with anyone in over a year. And it pissed me off when Emmerich said that I would die alone because he was probably right.”

Jaskier opened his mouth to speak, but there was one more thing that Geralt had to—wanted to—tell him. “And the tattoo, I got it when I was sixteen...after my uncle died. My mother left me in his care when I was very young. I don’t know who my father is.” Geralt cleared his throat and said as casually as possible, “Anyway, that’s all that I can think of right now. I’m sure more will come to mind in the next few days.”

Jaskier looked at him with a curious expression. “You really haven’t slept with anyone in over a year?”

Geralt glared at him. “That’s all that you took away from that conversation? Out of everything else that I told you? Bloody typical.”

“That’s a long time,” Jaskier teased.

“Yeah, well I’ve been busy,” he replied defensively. Jaskier raised his hands in mock surrender.

“Don’t take it the wrong way, I’m just surprised. Because you’re...you know...not ugly.”

Geralt snorted and shook his head in disbelief. “Wow. Thanks. Well, I suppose you’re not too bad-looking yourself.”

A mischievous grin spread across Jaskier’s face. “You think that I’m handsome?”

“Don’t put words in my mouth,” Geralt warned.

Jaskier chuckled and strummed his guitar a couple of times, and Geralt couldn’t help but feel relieved to see him smiling again. It struck him then that Jaskier had quite a lovely smile. He smiled with more than his mouth though. Geralt could see the happiness written across his face; it came from deep within his eyes, which were a deep earthy brown like soil after a torrential rain. He hated the rain. But he liked Jaskier’s eyes. More than was strictly professional, he realised.

Jaskier began to pluck the strings, playing a tune that Geralt knew very well and his eyes widened with surprise. “You know how to play Valdo Marx?”

“He’s an atrocious singer, if you ask me,” said Jaskier lightly. “But I do happen to know a few of his songs, yes.”

Geralt enjoyed listening to Jaskier play music to him. He also, to his surprise, enjoyed talking to Jaskier: about himself, about Jaskier, about anything. They had spent almost every day of the last three years in each other’s company, and he had learned nothing of note about his assistant. But in one evening, Geralt learned quite a lot about Julian Alfred Pankratz, and the more he learned, the more he began to realise what he had been missing out on for the longest time. They sat there in the treehouse until the sky transformed from an inky black to pale gold and pink. With the dawning of a new day breaking, Jaskier yawned and rubbed his tired eyes.

“I suppose we ought to head to bed,” he said sleepily before giving Geralt a small smile. “Thank you. For sitting with me. And talking.”

Jaskier was looking at Geralt with an expression that he couldn’t immediately identify, and despite the cold air, it made his skin prickle with heat. It was only then that Geralt realised how close he and Jaskier were to one another, shoulder to shoulder, their faces inches apart. Jaskier didn’t move closer, but he didn’t pull away either. He seemed to be waiting for Geralt to do something...and it was then that Geralt realised that he hadn’t replied to Jaskier, that he’d just been sitting staring at him. Coming back to his senses, he shook his head clear and mumbled ‘No problem’ before turning away. Clearly, exhaustion was playing with his mind and his emotions. Or maybe it was this island? And this family.


	6. Chapter 6

Geralt and Jaskier were only beginning to doze off when Mary came crashing into their bedroom with another breakfast tray for the pair.

“Morning!” she greeted them airily, placing the tray on Jaskier’s bedside table. “I trust that you both slept well?”

“Since we only went to bed about an hour ago, not really,” Jaskier grumbled, pulling the quilt over his head to block out the sunlight pouring through the windows.

“Oh? Well, it sounds like you two had a busy night,” she chuckled. “Don’t bother telling me the finer details. I am your mother, after all.”

“Mum, no,” Jaskier groaned. “That wasn’t what I meant.”

Mary didn’t sound convinced. “Uh huh. Well, when you’re both feeling up to it, your father and I would like to have a word with you. Both of you, actually.”

Jaskier pulled the covers off of his head to look at his mother. “What about?”

“Nothing bad,” she assured him. “We just have some thoughts about the wedding. There’s no rush! Just come down when you’re ready.”

Mary pressed a quick kiss to Jaskier’s forehead before leaving the room, closing the door behind her as quietly as possible. Geralt, no longer feigning sleep, pulled the covers away from his own head and looked at Jaskier.

“What’s your mother up to?” he asked suspiciously.

“I don’t know, but it’s probably nothing good,” Jaskier turned to face Geralt. “Do you want to try and get some shuteye before we find out?”

Geralt shook his head. “No, I won’t be able to get back to sleep thinking about it. We might as well get it over with.”

After a quick shower to wake themselves up, Geralt and Jaskier traipsed downstairs to find Mary, Albert and Grammy sitting in the kitchen talking quietly amongst themselves. When the pair entered the kitchen, the conversation ended abruptly and the trio plastered smiles onto their faces.

“Morning,” Jaskier greeted them cautiously. He didn’t like the look of this.

“Hello, boys!” Mary beckoned the pair to sit at the breakfast bar while Grammy prepared them cups of coffee. “We didn’t expect you to be up this early.”

“Couldn’t sleep.” Jaskier took the proffered cup from his grandmother. “So...what was it that you wanted to talk to us about?”

Mary and Grammy looked expectantly at Albert, who cleared his throat and folded his hands together on top of the kitchen table. “I, um...your mother was a little peeved at me. Apparently, I wasn’t a very gracious host last night.”

“There’s no ‘apparently’ about it,” Grammy muttered darkly, drawing her son a disdainful look. “I’ve been to bottom-dweller taverns with better customer service!”

“Okay, so I was an arsehole,” Albert relented hotly. “You can imagine my shock, though, when you said that you’re getting married, considering that none of us even knew that you two were dating.”

“That’s fair,” Jaskier mumbled. “I hadn’t intended to spring it on you the way that I did.”

Albert shook his head. “I should be the one apologising. I’m sorry to both of you for how I behaved. It won’t happen again.”

Grammy and Mary turned to Jaskier to gauge his reaction while Geralt’s gaze remained fixed on his coffee. Jaskier could count on one hand the number of times his father had apologised to him, and to do it in front of the family was no small thing. As infuriating as his father could be, he hated fighting with him. So, he gave Albert a curt nod and said, “Apology accepted.”

Everyone in the room seemed to let out a collective breath then and Jaskier asked, “Is that what you wanted to talk to us about?”

“There was another thing,” Albert continued. “Your mother and I have a proposition. I happen to think it’s a terrific idea.”

Mary squeezed Albert’s shoulder and looked hopefully at Jaskier and Geralt. “We would like you two to get married here.”

Jaskier blinked. “Get married here?”

“Next week.”

Geralt choked on his coffee. “Excuse me?”

“Well, you’re going to get married anyway, so why not do it here?” Mary added hurriedly. “Where we’re all together and Grammy can be a part of it too.”

“No,” Jaskier shook his head and his mother’s face fell. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not?” Mary asked, sounding disappointed.

“We’re here for Grammy’s birthday party, it’s her big day. We don’t want to take attention away from that.”

“Agreed,” Geralt nodded. “We don’t want to ruin it.”

“I’ve had eighty-nine birthday parties, I don’t need another one!” Grammy argued. “It would be a dream come true for me to see my only grandchild’s wedding.”

“How would we even be able to organise a wedding on such short notice?” Jaskier argued desperately. “We would need someone to perform the ceremony, for starters.”

“Not a problem! We’ve already spoken to Wolfgang and he’s agreed to do it,” said Mary. “He got ordained and performed the rites at Shani and Thalor’s wedding last year.”

“You’d know that if you’d bothered to turn up,” Albert added, but quickly shut his mouth again after Mary drew him a sharp look.

“So, you’ll do it?” asked Grammy hopefully.

Jaskier and Geralt looked uncertainly at one another. “Uhhh…”

“Before I’m dead,” she added with a sweet smile. “Which could be any day now, for all you know.”

Finally, Jaskier’s shoulders sagged. “Okay.”

Mary clapped her hands together and grinned. “Wonderful! Now, don’t you worry about organising the wedding, Grammy and I will take care of _everything!_ Oh! You could get married under the old oak tree, like your father and I.”

“It’s a Pankratz family tradition!” Grammy informed them brightly.

“What a coincidence. I’ve always wanted to get married under a big old treehouse,” said Geralt sarcastically.

“It’s a sign!” Grammy declared, throwing her hands up into the air. “A sign from the universe that you’re meant to be together!”

Mary threw her arms around Geralt and Jaskier, who reluctantly returned the embrace. “Oh, I’m so excited! I promise we’ll make it the most magical day of your lives.”

While Grammy and Mary chatted excitedly to one another making arrangements, Albert watched in silence with a small smile on his face, evidently happy to be out of the doghouse with his wife. Jaskier, however, felt sick to his stomach. He made his excuses saying that he was going to show Geralt around the island today and took his leave. When they were back in the safety and solitude of their bedroom, Jaskier flopped down onto his bed, grabbed the nearest pillow and screamed into it. Geralt sat down next to him, wringing his hands on his lap.

“This is getting out of hand.”

“When my mother finds out that this is a sham, she’s going to be crushed,” Jaskier despaired, tossing his pillow aside in frustration. “And when _Grammy_ finds out...gods, my grandmother is probably going to die!”

“They won’t find out,” Geralt argued, putting his arm around Jaskier’s shoulders and rubbing his back. “I promise you, everything is going to be fine.”

“Everything is not going to be fine! I’m going to break my mother’s heart, kill my grammy, and prove to my father once and for all what a colosal fuck-up I am,” he ranted. The anxiety and fear that Jaskier had been holding onto for days had left him feeling exhausted. Like a punctured balloon, he felt deflated as he let out a long breath and plopped his head against Geralt’s shoulder. “I didn’t think it was going to be this hard.”

“I know,” said Geralt softly. He hesitated a moment before he began to trace small circles on the bottom of Jaskier’s back. “Listen to me, I know that this is tough but you’re not alone. We’re in this together, until the bitter end. And look on the bright side: soon enough, this will all be over. We’ll go home, you’ll be an editor, we’ll get a quickie divorce and everything will be back to normal in no time. Soon, this whole nightmare will be behind us and we can get on with the rest of our lives.”

Jaskier looked up into Geralt’s face and smiled sadly at him. “You always sound so sure of yourself... you almost had me convinced.”

“It _will_ be fine,” said Geralt more firmly. “And let’s be honest, I’m sure your family won’t be that heartbroken when we break up. It’s not like they’re that keen on me anyway.”

Jaskier huffed out a laugh. “You’d be surprised. My mother thinks you’re the perfect gentleman.”

Geralt’s laughter rumbled low and deep in his chest. “If only she knew.”

“You’ve even got my grammy hoodwinked,” Jaskier chuckled. “She’s convinced that we’re destined to be together.”

Geralt’s hand stilled. “Well, I wouldn’t say I’ve hoodwinked her. Nothing I’ve said to her or your parents has been a lie.”

“Except our entire relationship,” Jaskier reminded him.

“Well...yeah, I suppose.” There was a long pause before Geralt said quietly, “I haven’t lied to you about anything. Everything that I told you last night was the truth.”

“Well, I’d certainly hope so! We’re supposed to be learning everything that we can about one another for the interview.”

“I know that. It’s just…” Geralt bowed his head, looking embarrassed. “A lot of those things I told you—stuff about my parents—I haven’t told anyone else before.”

Jaskier’s eyes widened with surprise. “Really?” Geralt nodded. “Why would you tell me then, of all people?”

Geralt smiled at him. “I already told you: I trust you.”

Jaskier’s surprise quickly waned and he was struck with the same dangerous desire that had gripped him in the treehouse that morning. He wasn’t sure when madness had begun to overrule reason, but he was pretty sure it was around the time Geralt had walked into their bedroom in nothing but a towel. Or maybe it had been last night when they had been talking— _really_ talking to one another—for what felt like the first time? Regardless of when his feelings for his boss had changed, Jaskier felt like he was walking headfirst into trouble where Geralt was concerned. Really, what would be the worst that could happen if he kissed Geralt? He was already at risk of losing his job, anyway. More importantly, if the look that Geralt was giving him right now was any indication, Jaskier was quite certain that Geralt wanted to kiss him too.

Jaskier felt his heart thud painfully in his chest as Geralt’s hand slid slowly from the bottom of his back to grip his hip. The little voice in his head telling him that this was a very bad idea was silenced by the pounding of blood in his ears as Geralt caught his eye, cautious and searching. As Geralt let out a shaky breath and inched closer, Jaskier felt as though the air had been sucked from his own lungs. Geralt’s amber eyes, warm and inviting like the heat of the sun, began to close, as did Jaskier’s, who was nervous and ready and willing for whatever was about to happen next.

Just then, there was a polite knock at the door. “Julian, darling, can I come in?”

Geralt and Jaskier froze. Jaskier was half in mind about ignoring his mother’s call and just kissing Geralt anyway. But instead, he heard himself shout ‘give us a second’ and gave Geralt a wry smile. “Are you starting to regret asking me to marry you?”

Geralt smirked. “Not yet.”

Reluctantly, Jaskier pulled away and answered the door to his mother, who smiled mischievously at him. “I’m not interrupting, am I?”

“No, mother,” he sighed, beckoning her into the room. “As always your timing is impeccable.”

“Well, I’m glad I managed to catch you both before you go on your walk around the island,” Mary said as she brandished a notepad. “Your grammy and I are writing up the guest list. Geralt, can you let us know by tomorrow who you would like to invite? Money won’t be an issue, so invite as many family and friends as you’d like.”

Geralt’s smile faltered and he nodded. “Thank you, Mary. That’s very generous of you, but that won’t be necessary.”

“It is absolutely necessary!” she cried. “This is the single most important day of your lives and you’ll want everyone that you care about to bear witness. Don’t bother trying to argue with me about it, Geralt, just give a list of names and their contact details by the morning.”

Geralt sighed. “Sure thing.”

“Thank you. Now, we’ve also been discussing the matter of stag parties…”

“Mum, no,” Jaskier groaned. “You know that I hate stag dos.”

“I know dear, that’s why we’ve organised a quiet fishing trip for you and your father instead.” Mary ignored Jaskier’s cries of protest and turned her attention back to Geralt. “While the boys are off on their fishing trip, we will be celebrating in style on the mainland! So make sure you get a good night’s sleep tonight because tomorrow you, Grammy and I will be painting the town red!”

“Now that really isn’t necessary,” he argued, but Mary waved a dismissive hand to silence him.

“Nonsense, you’ll love it,” she insisted. “Right. I’m off to arrange the flowers and catering. You boys enjoy the rest of your day!”

Mary strode from the room with a spring in her step, leaving Geralt and Jaskier staring after her.

“I don’t have a say in any of this, do I?” asked Geralt.

“You’re a quick learner!” said Jaskier breezily. “Come on, I better show you around the island. Grammy will probably quiz you at dinner tonight.”

“I’ll bring a notebook, then,” Geralt joked.


	7. Chapter 7

Geralt had a bad feeling about this.

His suspicions began when Mary draped a silk sash over his head with the words ‘husband to be’ emblazoned across it in glitter and diamantes. He had point-blank refused to wear the cheap veil that Grammy tried to pin on top of his head, but he didn’t miss her sneaking it into her handbag as they departed the house for the harbour.

“Try to enjoy yourself,” Jaskier had whispered to him before giving him a hug and a kiss on the cheek (for the benefit of his family, of course). “At least you don’t have to spend the afternoon confined to a small space in the middle of the sea with my dad.”

Geralt looked over his shoulder at Grammy and Mary aboard the _Rosemary and Thyme,_ who were already popping open a bottle of champagne and pouring it into three glasses. He wasn’t sure it was wise to be drinking while operating a sea vessel, but he kept that thought to himself.

“Right now, I’m not sure which would be worse,” he grumbled.

“Definitely fishing with my dad,” Jaskier insisted, pushing Geralt towards the boat. “Have fun!”

His suspicions about this event deepened when they were greeted by a large crowd of partygoers on the shore of the mainland. He was introduced to several of Jaskier’s aunts and great-aunts; first, second and third cousins; and a few close family friends of the Pankratzes. As his excited entourage carefully navigated the cobbled streets in their high heels, Geralt tapped Mary on the shoulder and said, “I couldn’t help but notice that there aren’t many men joining us for the stag do. In fact, there doesn’t seem to be any men.”

Mary glanced at their group and back towards Geralt. “That’s not going to be a problem, is it?”

“Well no,” he mumbled. “I just wasn’t ever expecting to be celebrating my upcoming nuptials with a hen party.”

“Oh Geralt, gender stereotypes are so last century!” cried Grammy, hooking their arms together. “Besides, traditional stag dos are boring: all men do is sit around the bar and get drunk until they pass out.”

“That doesn’t sound that bad…”

“Trust me, you’re going to have a great time with us! I bet my life on it.”

The same life which she had continuously threatened that could come to an end at any moment, Geralt mused.

He was led towards a tavern which bore the sign _The Alchemy_ above its entrance, the hinges squealing as Mary pushed open the heavy wooden door and beckoned him inside. The sharp smell of cheap alcohol assaulted Geralt’s nostrils as he stepped into the dingy bar. Thankfully, the plumes of grey tobacco smoke that hung in the air like forest mist took the edge off. The interior was nothing remarkable: there was a small, wooden bar on one side of the room, illuminated only by the age-speckled bar lights that bathed the premises in an ominous shade of red. There was a smattering of round tables and chairs, and a small stage decorated with moth-eaten velour curtains. A couple of the girls in their party hurried over to the jukebox while Grammy pulled Geralt towards the bar.

“Stjepan! A round of Grandma’s cordial, please,” she called. The barman, a tired-looking fellow with a brown beard, hadn’t looked up from wiping a pint glass as the women poured into his establishment, but when Grammy slammed a fistful of Crowns onto the bartop, he paused and smiled at her.

“Coming right up, love,” he croaked, tucking the tea towel into the waistband of his trousers before hurrying to fetch her order. When he slid two shot glasses of amber liquid towards Geralt and Grammy, Geralt picked it up and gave it a curious sniff.

“Do I want to know what this is?” he asked.

“Probably best if you don’t,” she chuckled before throwing her head back and downing the contents of her glass in one large gulp. She slammed the empty glass onto the bartop and said, “Another one, Stjepan.”

“Starting early today, aren’t we?” Stjepan mused, topping up her glass.

“We’re celebrating,” she explained, putting her arm around Geralt and giving him an affectionate hug. “My grandson is getting married!”

“This isn’t Jaskier, is it?” asked Stjepan.

“Gods, no!” Grammy laughed. “This is my grandson’s fiance, Geralt. He’s Rivian, you know.”

“Ahh,” Stjepan grabbed a bottle of red liquid from behind the bar. “Then perhaps I can tempt you with a bottle of Rivian Kriek? Just got a shipment in this week.”

“You wouldn’t happen to have any Kaedwenian Stout, would you?” asked Geralt hopefully.

Stjepan raised his eyebrows in surprise but grabbed a dark bottle of ale from beneath the counter and slid it across the bar to Geralt. “Here you go. First one’s on the house since you’re a friend of old Violet, here.”

“Ha! I might be old, but I can drink you under the table any day,” Grammy declared before downing her next drink. She looked expectantly at Geralt, who still hadn’t touched his shot glass. “Drink up, son. We’ve got a full day of celebrations ahead of us.”

Geralt sighed and downed the drink in one gulp, struggling not to gag when the hot, spicy liquid hit the back of his throat. “Fuck! That kicks like a mule.”

Grammy smiled triumphantly at him. “I knew you’d like it! Two more, Stjepan.”

Jaskier had warned Geralt that his grandmother drank like a sailor, but he had to see it to believe it. Geralt’s tolerance for alcohol was quite high, but he realised that getting into a drinking contest with the Pankratz matriarch was a fool’s errand. As the afternoon turned into the evening, Geralt was enjoying the pleasant buzz of the alcohol coursing through his veins. He was also enjoying listening to Grammy and Mary reminisce about Jaskier in his formative years.

“Jay has always been creative,” Grammy gushed. “He’s been playing the guitar and singing to us for as long as he could walk.”

Mary nodded with a wistful look in her eye. “He was forever writing poetry for the girls and boys at school, falling in and out of love on a whim. He’s always worn his heart on his sleeve.”

“Really?” asked Geralt interestedly.

Grammy nodded. “He would always retreat to the treehouse anytime he had an argument with Albert or if he’d had his heart broken again. He’d spent a couple of days up there moping about and playing his music before he’d come back down to the house.”

“Well, except when him and Pris broke up. He packed his bags and left for Tretogor the day after they split,” Mary said glumly before downing her drink. Evidently, a few drinks had loosened her tongue and, against his better judgement, Geralt was keen to know more.

“You’ve mentioned Pris a few times, but I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting her,” he chanced.

“Oh, she’s here!” Mary informed him. She pointed across the room at the jukebox where a petite blonde stood with her arm draped around her friend’s shoulder. “Would you like to meet her?”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t!” said Grammy hotly. “Honestly, I don’t know what you were thinking, inviting that girl to your future son-in-law’s hen party!”

“Her parents are good friends of ours, I couldn’t _not_ invite her!” she argued. “Besides, I’m sure Jaskier won’t mind. He said it’s all water under the bridge between them now. She’s really a lovely girl, you know.”

“If Jaskier wanted to marry her, then I’m sure she must be,” said Geralt quietly, stealing a glance at the pretty blonde.

“Not as lovely as you, of course,” Mary preened, pulling Geralt into an awkward one-armed hug while trying to take a drink from her glass over his shoulder.

“Yes, our Jaskier is quite enamoured with you, if I do say so myself,” said Grammy.

“You think so?” asked Geralt hopefully. Mary and Grammy laughed.

“Of course he is! Why else would he ask you to marry him?” Mary chuckled.

Geralt’s stomach squirmed again but he laughed and shrugged his shoulders. “Yes, I suppose you’re right.”

“It’s just the way that he looks at you,” said Grammy thoughtfully. “I’ve never seen him look at anyone quite like that before.”

Geralt suspected that they were mistaking Jaskier’s dislike and annoyance for him as affection, but he kept that thought to himself. Suddenly, the music in the jukebox cut off mid-song and a bright white spotlight illuminated the small stage in front of him. Mary and Grammy squealed excitedly with the other women in the bar while Geralt looked around with confusion.

“Is there a show tonight?”

“Oh yes. A very special performance just for you.” Grammy gave him a licentious wink.

“We told you that we’ve had a couple of surprises in store for you today,” said Mary.

“I hate surprises,” Geralt reminded them.

“Well, you’ll love this one,” Mary insisted. “Lyron is one of Redania’s _greatest_ treasures.”

Geralt opened his mouth to argue but his words were drowned out by the pulsing beat of the drum and bass music that had begun to blare from the speakers above the stage. The women screamed and Geralt groaned with embarrassment as the curtains drew back to reveal a handsome gentleman in a Redanian police uniform.

“Was booking a stripper for my benefit or yours?” he shouted over the music to Grammy.

“Both!” she admitted with a laugh.

The dancer’s routine started well enough: he took his time popping the buttons off of his shirt before slipping the soft material off of his muscular shoulders to reveal a tanned (and incredibly oily) torso. As he tossed his shirt off of the stage, the crowd screamed and a couple of Jaskier’s aunts fought over the shirt as the performance continued. Turning his back on the crowd, the dancer bent over and began to shimmy his rear end enticingly, much to the delight of the crowd while Geralt concentrated on his pint. With one sharp tug, the dancer ripped off his trousers to reveal an equally oily pert bottom in a black thong. When he danced towards them, Grammy took the opportunity to slip a couple of notes in his thong before spanking him on the arse. The dancer blew Grammy a kiss before grabbing Geralt’s hand and pulling him towards the stage, but Geralt wouldn’t move.

“No thanks,” he replied roughly. “Not my thing.”

“Come on love, you’ll enjoy it,” the dancer crooned.

“Go on, Geralt, we paid for you to get a dance!” Mary cried, practically dragging Geralt to the stage where a wooden chair had miraculously appeared.

Reluctantly, Geralt sank into the chair and resigned himself to what was about to happen. The dancer, credit where it’s due, put on quite the acrobatic performance, writhing all over Geralt’s lap, rubbing his arse vigorously against Geralt’s crotch, smearing baby oil all over his trousers and shirt with each gyration of his hips.

“Spank his arse, Geralt!” screamed Grammy and the crowd went wild.

Geralt sighed and complied with the request, to much applause from the audience. Eventually, Geralt managed to escape the dancer and the stage, sneaking out of the fire exit to catch his breath. Leaning against the wall, he closed his eyes and sighed. He seriously doubted even a fishing trip with Albert could be worse than this. Geralt opened his eyes when the fire exit door creaked open, thinking Grammy or Mary had come looking for him. Instead, he came face to face with Pris, the petite blonde from the jukebox. She was carrying two drinks and a curious smile on her face that made Geralt regret leaving the party in such a hurry. The last thing that he needed was ex-girlfriend drama on top of everything else going on.

“How’re you holding up?” she asked.

“I’ll manage,” he replied shortly.

Pris glanced at the oil smears all over his clothes. “That’s going to be a bastard to clean.”

Geralt huffed out a laugh. “Tell me about it, they’re brand new clothes as well.”

Pris smiled nervously at Geralt and held out one of the glasses to him. “I thought that you could use a drink. It’s just water.”

Geralt’s eyes narrowed but he took the proffered glass from Pris’s hand. “Thanks.”

“We haven’t been properly introduced yet,” she said, taking a step forward and holding out her hand. “I’m Priscilla. Everyone just calls me Pris, though.”

“I know.” Geralt took her hand and shook it. “I’m Geralt.”

“I know,” she chuckled. “So, what do you think of Oxenfurt?”

_Zero internet or phone signal and too much damn water. My idea of hell,_ he thought. “It’s...different.”

Pris laughed. “I imagine things here are quite a bit different from life in Tretogor.”

“A bit,” he admitted. “Have you ever been to the capital?”

Pris’s smile turned sad and she shook her head. “Nah, that was always Jaskier’s dream, not mine.”

“I take it that you two were pretty close?” he asked curiously.

Pris shrugged and leant against the wall next to Geralt. “Well, we dated in high school and all through college. I’m sure you already knew that.”

“Of course,” he lied. “Although he’s never told me why you guys called off the wedding.”

“He never told you?” Surprise streaked across Pris’s face and she bowed her head. “Well, the night before graduation, Jaskier proposed to me. He wanted us to elope and run away to Tretogor, like the old romantic that he is. But…”

“You said no,” Geralt finished quietly.

“I said no,” she confirmed, downing her drink and grimacing at the taste. “I’ve never been anywhere but here. But here...this is my home. Jaskier’s ambitions have always been bigger than this place. I wasn’t willing to leave all of this behind, and I wouldn’t let him stay and give up his dreams. I won’t deny that I loved him—I still do—but ultimately, we wanted different things from life. It would never have worked out between us.” She gave Geralt a sincere smile. “He’s a good man, though. The best. You’re lucky to have him. He really is the best...which you obviously already know.”

“Yeah, I do,” said Geralt, realising the truth of those words for the first time.

Pris raised her glass to Geralt and smiled. “Well, cheers to you both.”

Geralt returned the smile and clinked their glasses together. “Thank you.”

Geralt and Pris turned as the door swung open again and this time Mary appeared.

“There you are!” she cried, grabbing Geralt by the hand. “Come on, love, you’re missing your own hen party!”

“Come on,” said Pris. “I’ll tell you all of the embarrassing stories that I know about Jaskier.”

Geralt grinned and followed them back inside. “Please do.”

* * *

Jaskier stifled a yawn. Whatever diabolical plans his mother and Grammy had in store for Geralt, it had to be infinitely better than sitting on a two-man boat with his father. Not that he had anything against fishing, in particular. Redanian waters were rich with sea life and on a good day he could catch a few large halibut and red-bellied dace. But compared to horse riding, playing the guitar, writing, or watching paint dry, fishing was an incredibly dull endeavour. Jaskier checked his watch and stifled another yawn. He wondered how drunk his Grammy had managed to get Geralt. He’d never seen Geralt drunk before and he was curious to see what kind of drunk he was: was he a sleepy drunk? Would he snore? Was he the type to cry and spill his guts? Surely not flirty? No. Definitely not flirty...

“So,” Albert began. “What are yours and Geralt’s plans after the wedding?”

Jaskier rolled his eyes. The first couple of hours fishing had passed in amicable silence, but he could tell by the way his father kept glancing over his shoulder at him that he wanted to talk to him about something, and Jaskier had a good idea what about.

“What do you mean?” he asked, knowing exactly what he meant.

“Well, are you really going to keep being Geralt’s assistant after you get married?” Albert pressed. “Seems like it would cause a conflict of interest in the office.”

“Some work opportunities have come up, if you must know,” he replied evasively.

“Hmm.” A long silence followed and just when Jaskier dared to hope that would be the end of their conversation, Albert spoke up again, “Jaskier, you know that I’m not getting any younger.”

Jaskier sighed and lowered his fishing rod. “And?”

“And I’ve been going over my retirement plans recently. It got me thinking…”

“Please don’t,” Jaskier warned.

“I’ve done a lot of things in my life,” Albert continued. “Practically built an empire with your mother from the ground up. It doesn’t mean anything unless we have someone to leave it to.”

“We’ve already discussed this.”

“I’d like to discuss it again,” Albert snapped. “Now, I think I’ve been more than understanding about you having your fun in Tretogor, but you have responsibilities here. I think it’s about time for you to stop messing about, come home and—”

“Messing about?” Jaskier spat, turning to face his father. “Having my fun? Being an editor is a legitimate career!”

“Editor’s assistant,” Albert jibed.

“Not for much longer, I hope,” he replied testily. “For three years I’ve put my heart and soul into this job. When are you going to take what I do seriously?”

“When you start acting seriously!”

Jaskier’s shoulder sagged. “Look, I’m sorry, dad. I wish that you had another son, one that wanted to take over the family business—one who wanted to marry someone that you approved of—but that’s not me. It never was and it never will be. I understand that it must seem strange to you, that I would rather give up all of this to sit in my stuffy little office in Tretogor and read books for a living, but it makes me happy. Can you understand that?”

“No, I really don’t,” said Albert, looking disappointed. He shook his head and sighed. “Well, if it makes you happy, son...then I have nothing else to say to you.”

“Well, that’ll be a first,” Jaskier bristled. “You know what? Screw this.” Jaskier tossed his fishing rod to the floor of the boat then began stripping out of his clothes. Albert stared at him with disbelief.

“What the hell are you doing now?” he cried.

“I’ve had quite enough of your company for one day,” said Jaskier, discarding his shoes at his feet. He struggled to take off his trousers but when he was just in his boxers, he swung his legs over the edge of the boat then shuffled his bottom to the edge, causing it to rock back and forth. “I’m just going to swim home.”

“It’s two miles back to shore!”

“I’ve done it before,” said Jaskier briskly. “Enjoy the rest of your fishing trip.”

“Don’t be an idiot, Jaskier!”

Jaskier gasped as he slipped his body into the freezing cold water, but he began to warm up when he started swimming back towards the shore. He could hear his father shouting after him but the water lapping at his face and his heavy, panting breaths drowned out whatever criticism was being directed at him. Probably something about being impulsive. Like he hadn’t heard that before.

It took him some time to make it back to the shore. When he finally did, he bypassed the treehouse and headed straight for the shower to warm himself up and to wash the sea salt from his body. His already damp feet slapped against the tiled bathroom floor and he quickly discarded his waterlogged boxers into the nearby washing basket before stepping into the shower. The metallic dial squeaked as he turned it, releasing a cascade of thousands of lukewarm raindrops onto his head and down his back. He couldn’t help but shiver and groan with satisfaction as the hot water struck his skin like hot wet kisses. Closing his eyes, Jaskier allowed his mind to go blissfully blank, concentrating on nothing but the sound of the water pouring in a never-ending waterfall.

He tried not to think about his father or the argument that they’d had. It was the same argument that they’d had over and over again, about Jaskier’s responsibilities to his family and their business empire. It hurt to know how little his father thought of everything that he cared for so deeply: his job, his passions, his ambitions. Even Geralt hadn’t been able to avoid criticism from the Pankratz patriarch.

Geralt.

The tension in Jaskier’s stomach eased when he thought about him. It was strange how much his feelings had changed for the man in such a short period of time. Sure, Geralt still drove him crazy most of the time, but he also had a sense of humour that Jaskier had never fully appreciated before. And he was surprisingly easy to talk to, once he managed to chip away the chilly exterior. And the fact that his Grammy and mum had grown so fond of him over the last few days—

Jaskier’s stomach dropped again and he clenched his eyes shut. The deception of it all was really beginning to bother him. The lies were pouring out of him so thick and fast that he feared he might drown in it all. And as if lying to his family wasn’t bad enough, he felt like he was lying to himself now, too. This whole situation was getting dangerously out of hand—the wedding and his own feelings—but he couldn’t stop now. And he didn’t really want to, either. Jaskier mentally berated himself for being this way. His growing feelings for Geralt made him feel silly and childish. Falling for your boss? _Really?_ How cliche.

Cliche or not, they weren’t going to go away any time soon.

The tension in his stomach migrated south, and Jaskier’s breathing became slower and heavier as he only half-consciously slipped his hand between his legs. He felt a tad guilty doing this while thinking about Geralt, but he pushed that feeling aside for the time being and concentrated on the heavy weight of his prick in his hand. Tightening his grip, Jaskier allowed himself to imagine it was Geralt’s powerful hands on him, his soft lips pressing wet kisses to his neck while whispering encouragement in his ear as he began stroking Jaskier back and forth.

Fleeting, fanciful images of Geralt flashed through Jaskier’s mind as he stroked himself closer and closer to climax: Geralt’s beautiful amber eyes, like honey, half-lidded with desire and fixed on Jaskier as he got onto his knees at Jaskier’s feet. Geralt’s big hands sliding up Jaskier’s thighs before he takes his throbbing cock in hand and laps the flat of his tongue over the sensitive tip…

Putting one hand on the wall to steady himself, Jaskier’s breath stuttered as he began thrusting his hips forward, sliding his swollen, slick prick back and forth through his tight fist, wishing it were Geralt’s hand, his sweet mouth, his tight ass, gripping around Jaskier’s shaft. That last thought sent a deep, sharp spark of pleasure through Jaskier and in a few quick strokes, he pushed himself over the edge. Jaskier threw his head back as he came, relishing the wave of ecstasy that crashed over him like the water cascading over his body. Sated and exhausted, Jaskier slumped forward and rested his head onto his forearm. He felt like he’d just swam another couple of miles in the sea.

Washing away the evidence of his transgression, Jaskier towelled himself dry, pulled on a clean pair of boxers, and collapsed onto his bed, allowing a dreamless sleep to take him into sweet oblivion for a few hours. He knew that he was well and truly fucked, but he could worry about his life falling apart and his feelings in the morning.


	8. Chapter 8

The grey light of a new day was already on the horizon by the time Geralt made it back to the Pankratz family home. Despite drinking enough to drown a sailor, Grammy was _compos mentis_ enough to sail the boat back to the island, and Geralt was drunk enough not to question how irresponsible that may be. Mary, meanwhile, had to be carried onto the boat by Geralt after drinking too much of Grammy’s infamous cordial.

“So, what’s the verdict—did you have a fun night?” Grammy asked as she docked the boat in the harbour. Geralt easily lifted a sleeping Mary into his arms and carried her up the gravel path towards the house with Grammy by his side. The evening’s events flashed through his mind: he could easily have passed on the oily strippers and karaoke, but watching Grammy take a jelly shot from the belly button of the nightclub bartender would stay with him forever.

“It was an interesting experience,” he replied diplomatically.

Grammy snorted and shook her head. “Admit it! You enjoyed yourself.”

“Hmm...maybe a little bit.”

“That’s good enough for me,” she relented, patting him on the back.

The house was dark and quiet when they entered. Grammy said that she would grab a drink and a quilt for Mary while he gently laid her out on the living room couch. Mary barely stirred as Grammy tucked the quilt under her chin and left a glass of water on the coffee table.

“Can’t forget this,” she whispered, placing a basin on the floor next to Mary. She sighed and shook her head as she looked down at her daughter-in-law. “Poor girl will have a rotten hangover tomorrow. She’s never been able to hold her liquor.”

“She seemed to enjoy herself up until the point she fell asleep in the toilets.”

“Thank the gods Pris found her, otherwise she’d still be in there,” Grammy chuckled. She looked up at Geralt with a fond smile. “Come here. I want to talk to you about something.”

Geralt frowned but followed Grammy as she beckoned him into the kitchen where they could speak without disturbing Mary. She motioned for him to take the empty seat next to her at the kitchen table before she spoke again. “Mary and I are hoping to send out the wedding invitations tomorrow morning, but you still haven’t told us who you would like to invite.”

Geralt’s stomach dropped. “Right. Um, about that...to be honest, the wedding’s been arranged on such short notice, I can’t really expect people to drop everything and come along. And it’s such a long way to travel. Plus, I haven’t brought my address book with me, so it would be a nuisance trying to get a hold of everyone’s addresses, you know?”

“Couldn’t you just call them?” she pressed.

She had him there. He struggled to think of a good reason as to why he couldn’t call the imaginary friends and family that he had to attend his fake wedding. When he drew a blank, he replied weakly, “I don’t want to hassle anyone.”

Grammy studied Geralt silently for a moment. “You know, since you’ve arrived here, you’ve talked a lot about your work, but I don’t think you’ve ever mentioned anyone from your life. Don’t you have any friends or relatives that you want to be there on your big day?”

Geralt fidgeted in his seat, thinking he’d rather be receiving another lapdance than endure this interrogation any longer. “Well, truth be told, I don’t have many people who would fall into either of those categories.” He bowed his head as his insides twisted with embarrassment. “So, really it wouldn’t even be worthwhile asking anyone.”

“So, there isn’t anyone that you would like to invite?”

Geralt shrugged. “Not particularly.”

“No family?” Geralt shook his head and Grammy sighed. “I thought that may be the case.”

Geralt snorted. “Is it that obvious?”

“No, it just takes one to know one. It might surprise you to hear that when I married Jay’s grandfather, my family were less than supportive of our union.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes. You see, Jay’s grandfather was born and raised in Nilfgaard.”

“Oh.”

Grammy gave him a sad smile. “Oh indeed. Attitudes towards Nilfgaardians may have improved over the years, but I’m sure that you can imagine what it was like back then: it was one thing to employ a Nilfgaardian, but to have one marry a Redanian girl...well, we were certainly the talk of the town.”

“It must have been difficult.”

“It was. My parents insisted that Julian only wanted to marry me for a residency card”—Geralt felt a wave of guilt wash over him then but he forced himself not to react—“the pressure from my family almost broke us up.”

“How did you stay together then?”

Grammy smiled fondly at Geralt. “Jay’s grandfather was a lot like you: he was tough and wouldn’t take no for an answer. But he was also fiercely loyal to those he loved. Despite everyone doubting us, fifty years of marriage and a son proved them all wrong. We got married under that oak tree out there.” She nodded towards the kitchen window. “It was just the two of us and the priestess. Julian’s family couldn’t afford to travel, and my family decided not to attend.”

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. What exactly he was sorry for, he wasn’t entirely sure. But Grammy shook her head and smiled.

“Don’t be. Family politics, social prejudice, self-doubt: you can overcome anything, so long as you love one another and are always honest with each other. Love and honesty was the foundation of mine and Julian’s marriage, it’s what’s at the heart of Mary and Albert’s relationship, too. You and Jay remind me a lot of myself and my Julian. Sure, we had our ups and downs, but he was always my anchor: I see how you keep each other anchored, how supportive you are of one another. I’ve no doubt that you two will have a long and happy life together.”

Geralt didn’t think he could take any more of this. The depth and sincerity of Grammy’s words cut him like a knife; the more she spoke, the more painful it was to hear, and the more he wanted what she said to be true. Geralt rubbed his tired eyes, stinging with tears. Grammy, unable to fully understand the full impact of her words, rummaged through her purse and pressed something small and cold into Geralt’s hand.

“Here. I was going to wait until your suit fitting to give you this, but I’d rather pass it on to you now.” Geralt opened his hand to find a plain silver ring.

“It’s beautiful,” he noted quietly.

“It’s been in my family for 150 years,” she said proudly. “My great-grandfather gave it to my grandfather when they got married. And while my father didn’t approve of our marriage, he did give me this. I want you to have it.”

Geralt shook his head. “Oh no, I couldn’t.”

“I don’t want to hear it!” she cried. “Grandmothers love to give gifts to their grandchildren; it makes us feel like we’re part of your lives, even after we’re gone. Please, take it.”

Geralt nodded mutely and closed his palm around the ring. Grammy rested her hand on top of his. “So you see, it doesn’t matter if nobody else turns up on your wedding day, because the most important person in your life is already going to be there. Julian and I made our own family, just like you and Jay will make yours. Your wedding day is the first day of the rest of your life, when you and Jaskier will be committing yourselves to each other, surrounded by people who love you both.”

“But I don’t have anyone who loves me,” Geralt murmured. He’d always known that was the case, but saying it out loud hurt more than he had expected it to.

“Of course you do!” she cried, squeezing his hand. “Jaskier loves you. And so do we. We’re your family now, Geralt. Never forget that.”

Grammy pulled Geralt into a tight hug, whispering reassurances as tears slid down his cheeks onto her shoulder. Her words had been as much a torment as they were a comfort, telling him everything that he’d ever wanted to hear on the basis of a terrible lie. And the more time he spent in the company of Jaskier and his family, the heavier that lie began to feel, pressing down on his shoulders and conscience like a physical weight, crushing the air from his lungs until he struggled to catch his breath.

He hoped that Jaskier would be asleep when he entered the bedroom after Geralt finally bid Grammy goodnight, but as he closed the door behind him with a soft click, Jaskier switched on his bedside lamp.

“There you are,” he yawned, sitting up against the headboard. “Huh, you look disappointingly sober. Well, I’m assuming since you’ve gotten home so late, you still had a good night.”

Geralt didn’t respond. Instead, he sat down on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands. “Jaskier, I don’t think that I can go through with this.”

“Surely the stag do wasn’t that bad,” Jaskier joked, but when he realised that Geralt was serious, he scrambled over to his side. “What do you mean? What happened?”

“It’s this place, these people...it’s you,” he rambled. “It’s screwing with my head.”

“You’re not making a lick of sense,” said Jaskier. He pulled Geralt’s hands away from his face, but Geralt turned away, unwilling to meet his eye. “How have we screwed with your head? My family has gone above and beyond to make you feel welcome here. They just threw you a bloody stag do, for gods’ sake!”

“I know!” Geralt snapped. “That’s the problem.”

Jaskier frowned. “Was the stag do that bad?”

“No, not the stag do, Jaskier!” Geralt bristled.

“Then what?” Jaskier demanded. “You’re going to have to spell it out for me because you’re not making any sense.”

Geralt sighed and clenched his fists. “Tonight, everyone was so _nice._ They all welcomed me with open arms, even Pris. And your mother and grandmother, they’ve made me feel so at home here, like I’m part of the family.”

Jaskier stared at him. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It is!” Geralt insisted. “Because it’s not real, is it? Any of it. I manipulated you into doing this to save my own arse.”

“Hold on a minute, I walked into this with my eyes wide open,” Jaskier argued. “I agreed to do this!”

“You say that you love your family.”

“Of course I do.”

“Yet you’re still going to put them through this!” he said accusingly.

“Because they’re not going to find out!” Jaskier shouted.

“They might not find out that this is a sham marriage but they’re still going to get hurt. Look what your grandmother just gave me.” Geralt pulled the wedding band out of his pocket and showed it to Jaskier. Jaskier’s eyes widened with surprise and he looked sharply at Geralt.

“She gave that to you?”

Geralt nodded. “She believes that we’re the real deal, but you and I both know how you really feel about me.”

“Oh?” said Jaskier hotly, crossing his arms. “So you’re able to look inside of my head now?”

Geralt drew him a withering look. “Don’t treat me like I’m stupid. I know about the little group chat you and everyone else in the office are part of, talking behind my back. I get it, though. I’m your boss, I don’t pay you to like me.”

“You don’t know the first thing about how I feel about you!” Jaskier shouted.

“Then why don’t we both just get it out in the open, eh?” Geralt rose to his feet and pointed accusingly at Jaskier. “Tell me exactly what you think of me, _Julian.”_

Jaskier’s eyes flashed with anger and he scrambled to his feet, standing toe to toe with Geralt. “Fine! You really want to know what I think of you? You’re the most self-centred, pig-headed, infuriating person I’ve ever met!” Geralt tutted and rolled his eyes, which only enraged Jaskier further. “For the last three years, I’ve bent over backwards for you, missing out on holidays and the opportunity to spend time with my family and friends, and I never got so much as a thank you for my troubles!”

“Need I remind you that I pay you to assist me, not to be my friend?” Geralt shot back.

“Yeah? Well, you don’t pay me enough!”

“Well, do you want to know what I really think about you?”

“No.”

Geralt screwed his face up with confusion. “No?”

“No, because I’ve spent every day for the last three years listening to you talking about yourself and for once in my life I want to take the opportunity to tell you to shut up!”

Geralt gaped at him. _“Excuse me?”_

“You heard me!” Jaskier put his face in Geralt’s, clearly relishing the chance to insult him. “Shut up!”

Jaskier’s eyes widened with shock as Geralt suddenly grabbed a fistful of his t-shirt and pulled him closer, snarling, “Make me!”

Jaskier’s hands instinctively grabbed hold of Geralt’s, but he didn’t push him away. Geralt’s heart was pounding from anger and, more distressingly, with arousal. His trousers felt impossibly tight around his sudden erection, but he was more shocked to find Jaskier’s boxers were tented as well. Their breaths were heavy and the air was thick with tension, but neither man moved away from the other. They just stood there, their noses brushing together, glaring at each other—daring each other—to make the next move.

Geralt couldn’t think straight. A little voice at the back of his mind told him that this was a bad idea, but his focus narrowed to how blown out Jaskier’s pupils were, half-lidded and full of want, and gods, Geralt wanted him too. Geralt hushed the dissenting voice: what did it matter if he just closed the short distance between them now? To hell with the consequences, he was already beyond saving now.

“Make me,” he said again, with a note of pleading this time.

At those words, what little restraint Jaskier had left fell away as he grabbed the nape of Geralt’s neck and pulled him into a passionate kiss. Geralt’s world seemed to lurch sideways then, and the pent-up emotions that he’d been holding onto for days—years, really—melted away in an instant. His tight grip on Jaskier’s t-shirt slackened and he slid his hands up Jaskier’s neck, cupping his face in both palms. Jaskier sighed at his touch and deepened the kiss, opening his mouth and tracing his soft, silken tongue across Geralt’s bottom lip, sending a shiver down his spine. Geralt’s body and brain seemed to be acting independently from one another as he allowed himself to be turned around and pushed on the bed. Jaskier immediately followed as he climbed on top of Geralt’s lap and kissed him again. Their lips ghosted over each other, breathing hot, shallow breaths into each other’s mouths as Geralt’s hands wandered up Jaskier’s body, across his slim hips and under the loose-fitting t-shirt, relishing the expanse of smooth, warm skin at his fingertips. Jaskier broke the kiss to roughly pull his t-shirt over his head and toss it aside, mussing his hair in the process and gods, Geralt had never seen anything more gorgeous or fuckable in his life.

They were both gasping into the kiss now, tongues exploring each other’s mouths as they fought to remove the last of their clothing. As he finally managed to pull his boxers off, Geralt’s brain sluggishly noted what a great kisser Jaskier was, but his mind went blissfully blank when he felt Jaskier’s prominent erection brushed against his own. His pulse quickened as Jaskier lined up their hot, slick lengths together and jutted his hips forward, pulling a long, low moan from both of them. Jaskier did it again, slower and more deliberate this time, causing Geralt to throw his head back against the mattress and gasp, relishing the deep, sharp spark of pleasure that shot through his cock and up his spine. Geralt slowly dragged his fingernails down Jaskier’s back, cupping his arse cheeks in each hand and giving the firm globes a tight squeeze. Jaskier let out a groan of approval as Geralt pulled him closer, thrusting their bodies together, slick with sweat and precum, back and forth against each other to create a delicious friction.

“You want this?” Jaskier whispered, his hot breath kissing Geralt’s lips.

“Yes,” he breathed. He wanted it more than he dared to admit.

“You want me?”

Jaskier’s voice sounded abrasive but tentative, as though he still wasn’t entirely sure that Geralt would really want him too. Geralt answered with another kiss, and he felt the tension leave Jaskier’s body. The kiss was slower this time, less desperate but more deliberate with perhaps more meaning than Geralt could allow himself to ponder in that moment. Jaskier entwined their hands as they began canting their hips together in a steady motion. They grunted and groaned with each thrust, ragged puffs of breath passing between their pink, swollen lips as they tumbled towards a euphoric climax. Geralt’s head was spinning. It was all too much: the hot press of their bodies, the feel of Jaskier’s heart pounding against his own, the exquisite way Jaskier whispered his name over and over again, first like a prayer and then with a cry...

Geralt opened his eyes and watched with awe as Jaskier came completely undone before him. Jaskier’s body writhed and trembled with pleasure against his own, gripping Geralt’s hands like his life depended on it. He could feel the wet heat of Jaskier’s climax between them, making their thrusting movements even more fluid and urgent. Jaskier whimpered helplessly, his face contorted with pleasure before he collapsed in an ungraceful heap on top of Geralt, his face buried in Geralt’s neck as he made a series of muffled, blissful noises. Jaskier carefully pried their fingers apart but was still too exhausted to move. Geralt was content to lie there and allow Jaskier to get his breath back.

“You’re a lot heavier than you look,” Geralt joked eventually, earning him a disgruntled slap on the shoulder.

“I thought I told you to shut up,” Jaskier reminded him breathlessly.

“You already did a good job of shutting me up,” Geralt pointed out. Jaskier looked up then, pushing his damp hair from his face before giving Geralt a licentious smile.

“Oh, I’m not done with you yet,” he promised, crawling down Geralt’s body until he was between his legs. Geralt’s cock was still covered in Jaskier’s cum, but this didn’t seem to deter Jaskier. Geralt’s mouth fell open as Jaskier took a firm hold of his cock at the base and ran the flat of his tongue over the full length of the shaft, lapping up his own seed like the cat that got the cream.

“Holy shit,” he whimpered. It was the dirtiest, most erotic thing he’d ever seen. “Keep doing that.”

His hand scrambled at Jaskier’s shoulder before threading his fingers through his unkempt hair. Jaskier groaned approvingly and took the tip of Geralt’s cock into his mouth, sucking and twirling his tongue expertly over his full length. Jaskier’s mouth was so hot and wet, the sensation so intense, Geralt knew that it wouldn’t take much before he came too. As his breathing became more ragged, his grip on Jaskier’s hair tightened, and Jaskier responded by moving faster, bobbing his head up and down as Geralt gently began meeting his movements with light thrusts.

In a daze, Geralt looked up at Jaskier’s face, and oh, he was fucking gorgeous: his eyes half-closed like he was drunk with pleasure, his pretty mouth flushed red and shiny as he dragged his mouth over Geralt’s cock. It was the sexiest thing that Geralt had ever seen and the sight made him groan. “Jaskier…”

Their gaze locked then and Geralt felt time like time stood still for a moment. Despite the shuddering buildup of pleasure, Geralt’s orgasm still took him by surprise, slamming into him like a speeding train. He gasped and threw his head back as he came, his cock pulsing into Jaskier’s needy mouth as he continued to suck and swallow, leaving Geralt feeling boneless. Slowly, Jaskier crawled back up Geralt’s body, his expression one of contentment and revery. Geralt didn’t feel like he deserved to be looked upon like that, least of all by Jaskier. He pulled him into a slow, sensual kiss, revelling in the moment before reality came crashing down around them again and what they had just done.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay in posting a new chapter, life's been getting in the way of my writing lately. But your patience has been rewarded! I hope you all enjoy this latest chapter, thank you for sticking with this story <3

It took them a while to get their breath back, longer still to figure out what to say next. They lay next to each other on the bed with the infamous babymaker quilt draped over them, Jaskier staring up at the ceiling with a surprisingly content expression on his face. Geralt cast him an unimpressed sideways glance, wondering what the hell he was so pleased about. As his post-orgasmic afterglow began to wane, the same feelings of uncertainty and self-loathing were rising up in him again.

“So,” Jaskier sighed, turning his head a little to smile at Geralt. “That happened.” Geralt grunted in response and Jaskier’s smile faltered. “And you look less than pleased at that.”

“Yeah, well we’ve taken a fucked-up situation and just made it a hundred times worse.”

Jaskier groaned and pressed the palms of his hands into his eyes. “For gods’ sake, Geralt, can’t we just enjoy what happened for a minute before you make it all doom and gloom again?”

“What else is there to say?” he grumbled. “I’m your boss. What we did was completely inappropriate and unprofessional.”

Jaskier lowered his hands and drew him a withering look. “I think we crossed the line of professionalism when I agreed to marry you. What’s the big deal? Everyone already thinks we’re sleeping together. Now we’ve just made it official.”

“This isn’t funny, Jaskier.”

“I’m not laughing,” he replied without a trace of humour. Geralt let out a weary sigh and threw the blanket off himself. The bedsprings groaned as he got to his feet, but he stilled as Jaskier’s hand suddenly grabbed his own. “Hold up, we need to talk about this.”

“And say what, exactly?” He pulled his hand free from Jaskier’s and strode towards the bathroom. “I’m going for a shower.”

“You could start by telling me how you feel,” Jaskier called after him. He cursed under his breath and threw himself back on the bed in a huff. “I know that you like to paint yourself as the strong silent type, but maybe instead of insulting or fucking me, you could actually try _talking_ to me for once!”

The moment Geralt slammed the bathroom door shut, he realised that it was precisely the worst thing he could have done in that moment. He grabbed the door handle, intent on going back into the bedroom to talk things through with Jaskier, but he hesitated.

_Maybe I could escape through the window?_ he thought desperately to himself.

Of course, he’d run into the one room that had no window. Dammit. He doubted that he could drown himself in the shower either. Buying himself some time to think, Geralt decided to actually have a shower. He hoped that it would help clear his head, perhaps cleanse him of his misdeeds, but the hot water only seemed to irritate his skin. Still, he stayed under the spray of scalding water for a long time, trying to figure out what he should say, only to draw a complete blank. When the hot water began to run cold, he finally switched off the shower. Scraping his hair back from his face with his fingertips, he squeezed the excess water from it before throwing a towel around his waist and reentering the bedroom. Jaskier hadn’t moved from the bed. Instead, he sat against the headboard with his arms crossed and a disgruntled expression.

“Has anyone ever told you what an utter wanker you are?” he seethed.

“Frequently,” Geralt admitted. Despite his skin still being damp, he began pulling on his clothes.

“One moment you’re accusing me of screwing with your head, and the next we’re falling into bed together. And _then_ you walk away like nothing’s happened! It’s like living with bloody Jekyll and Hyde.” Jaskier’s eyes narrowed. “What are you doing?”

“Getting dressed. What does it look like?” he replied evasively, zipping up his trousers.

“Oh, no you don’t!” Jaskier threw the quilt off of himself and hurried towards the bedroom door, blocking Geralt from leaving. “You’re not going to sex it and exit with me.”

Geralt pulled a face. “A what?”

“Toot it and boot it,” said Jaskier. “Pull a smash ‘n’ dash. A wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am!”

Geralt shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re on about, I just need some time to clear my head.”

“Make your escape, more like,” Jaskier retorted. “You forget, Geralt Haute-Bellegarde, that I know everything about you. Knowing you, you plan on commandeering one of the boats and go running back to Tretogor just so that you can avoid talking to me about what just happened.”

“Of course not!” Geralt lied, annoyed that his backup plan had been foiled before he’d even had the chance to put it into action. “How could you even suggest such a thing?”

“Of course you weren’t,” Jaskier replied sarcastically. He motioned for Geralt to take a seat on the bed. “Let’s sit down and talk about this.”

Geralt looked desperately between the bed and the door, eager to make his escape. He could just push Jaskier out of the way and make a run for it—he was certainly big enough. He was so big that he could easily throw Jaskier over his shoulder or toss him onto the bed…

Geralt quickly pushed that treacherously tempting thought from his mind and sighed. He realised that no matter how far he ran, there was no escaping Jaskier, or this bloody island. Somehow, they had gotten under his skin, seeped into his bones, marking him forever. “Fine. But before we talk, can you please put some clothes on?”

Jaskier glanced down at his naked body and tutted. Snatching up his discarded boxers from the floor, he pulled them on again, muttering under his breath, “I didn’t hear you complaining about me being naked a minute ago.”

“It’s kind of difficult to have a serious conversation when you’re standing there with nothing on,” Geralt reasoned.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Jaskier quipped, flopping down onto the bed and patting the empty space next to him. Geralt hesitated a moment before sitting down. “Okay, now that I’ve convinced you to stay put for a few minutes”—Geralt rolled his eyes but didn’t argue—“let’s figure out what the hell is going on between us.”

“Fine,” Geralt mumbled.

“Okay. First of all, care to explain why you were about to do a runner on me?”

Geralt winced. “It’s complicated.”

“Try me.”

“You know that I don’t like talking about myself,” he argued.

“I’ve noticed,” Jaskier noted drily before asking more softly, “Come on, Geralt. Talk to me. Please.”

Geralt’s stomach squirmed at the thought of opening up the can of worms that was his life. But he felt like he owed it to Jaskier to be honest, so he took a deep breath and focused on his own hands, resting on his lap.

“I told you that I’ve been on my own for most of my life,” he began. “Been fending for myself since I was sixteen.”

Jaskier nodded. “Yeah, you mentioned it.”

“It was my uncle, Vesemir, who raised me. My mother, she um...I don’t know why, but my mother never took much interest in me,” he explained evenly, ignoring the storm of emotions raging inside of him. “She dropped me off at his house when I was still a baby. Not that Vesemir had any clue how to raise a kid—he bred working dogs for a living, not bairns—but still, he agreed to take care of me while she took off to look for work. And...well, she never came back.”

“Oh, Geralt.”

Geralt shook his head. “Don’t pity me. I might not have had a mother but I had a good life at Khaer Morhen. Uncle Vesemir was a little rough around the edges, but he took me in when nobody else wanted me. He took care of me and raised me like I was his own son.”

“He sounds like a good man,” Jaskier noted quietly.

“He was. Then he died and…” Geralt trailed off and clenched his fists. “This thing between us, it was supposed to be a professional arrangement: we get married, I get to keep my job and you get your book published.”

“And I get promoted to editor,” Jaskier reminded him lightly, earning him a withering look from Geralt.

“Yes, Jaskier, you’ll get your bloody promotion,” he groused, glaring at his fists. “But then I came here and things...changed. You don’t know what it’s like, to have everyone that you’ve ever cared about leave you. Over time, it became easier just to keep people at arm’s length, because you’re less likely to get hurt that way. But then I started to get to know you and your family better, and it’s been such a long time, I forgot what it was like.”

“Forgot what?” asked Jaskier curiously.

“What it was like to have a family.” He was unable to disguise the note of shame in his voice. “I forgot what it felt like to have people care about you: they bring you breakfast in bed and give you heirlooms and tell you that you’re part of the family. Then your grandmother gave me that ring and told me that I was part of your family now.” Geralt let out a mirthless laugh. “You want to know something really pathetic? That was the happiest I’ve felt in as long as I can remember. Right up until the moment I kissed you. And then I realised how stupid I was.”

“How are you stupid?” asked Jaskier incredulously.

“Because for the briefest of moments, I let myself hope that this was real,” he forced himself to admit. “That I would come back here for the holidays and be part of the family and—” Geralt cursed and punched his thigh in embarrassment and frustration. He clenched his eyes shut and took another calming breath before continuing. “So you see, that’s why I wanted to run away. I let myself get carried away with my own lie and I made a fool of myself in the process.”

Jaskier’s mouth hung open but he said nothing. The depth of Geralt’s confession seemed to have rendered him temporarily mute, which under any other circumstance would have been a blessing to Geralt as the man seemed incapable of silence. But as the silence dragged on for what felt like an eternity, Geralt began to wonder if he shouldn’t have been as honest with his feelings. When Jaskier spoke again, he spoke softly.

“For the record, I don’t think you’re stupid,” he said sincerely. “In fact, you’re probably the smartest person I’ve ever met.”

“Smart people don’t get themselves into situations like this,” Geralt pointed out.

“Yeah, well, feelings can make even the cleverest of us act like idiots,” Jaskier mused. “And while we might look like I have the perfect family, we’re far from it. Don’t give me that look, it really isn’t. You’ve only been here a few days, you haven’t had the displeasure of living with them for twenty years.”

Geralt scoffed. “Growing up on a private island in a mansion, wanting for nothing? It sounds awful.”

“It’s not always breakfast in bed and family heirlooms, you know,” Jaskier retorted. “It’s having your entire life mapped out for you since the day you were born, and you’re not even given a say in any of it. It’s never being able to live up to your parents’ expectations. It’s knowing that no matter what you do in life, you’ll always be a disappointment to them, so you might as well do what makes you happy. It’s what gives you the final push to leave a so-called perfect home and perfect family behind, just so that you can get on with your life without judging eyes greeting you every time you come home in the evening.” Jaskier let out a weary sigh and slumped against the headboard. “I know that I’ve lived a privileged life, but it’s been far from perfect. Perfection shouldn’t make you feel so miserable.”

Geralt had been ready with a biting retort on his lips when Jaskier had begun complaining about the turbulent relationship with his father, but instead he found himself feeling a pang of sympathy for the man. He knew all too well what it was like to be judged by everyone, expected to fail before you’ve even had the chance to prove your worth, but unlike Jaskier, Vesemir had always been supportive in everything Geralt did. He tried to imagine what it would be like to have Albert as a father and found himself thankful that he didn’t. Geralt never thought that someone like him, who fought tooth and nail for everything that he had, would take for granted something that Jaskier, someone who seemingly had everything, could never have.

“Your father’s an arsehole,” he declared, earning him a huff of laughter and an amused grin from Jaskier.

“You always have a way with words, Geralt,” Jaskier said fondly. “A true poet.”

“I just say it as I see it,” he shrugged. “You could have easily lived off of your family’s wealth, been handed a cushy job at one of your parents’ businesses, been a big fish in a small pond...but you didn’t. Even though you knew your father wouldn’t approve, you still went out on your own and forged your own path. That takes a lot of balls. And if your old man is too stubborn or dumb to see what a great son he raised, then that’s his problem, not yours.”

Jaskier bowed his head and looked bashful all of a sudden. “Wow, Geralt. You really do have a way with words. Thank you.”

Geralt gave him a small smile. “You’re welcome. I do think that you should visit your family more often, if only for your mother and grandmother’s sake. Based on the way they spoke about you tonight, they’ve missed you a great deal since you left.”

“Boss’s orders?” Jaskier teased and Geralt nodded curtly.

“Indeed. If you don’t make arrangements to visit your family this Christmas, I’ll fire you.”

Jaskier laughed and they fell into an amicable silence for a few moments. Jaskier glanced at Geralt and bit his lip. “Would you like to know what I really think about you?”

Geralt grunted. “I thought I was—what was it you said again? Self-centred and pigheaded?”

“And infuriating,” Jaskier added with a sly smile. “But you’re only a wanker _some_ of the time.”

“Good to know that you think so highly of me,” he muttered.

“Let me finish,” Jaskier said as he held up his hand to silence Geralt. “It’s like this: most of the time, you drive me crazy. You’re stubborn and argumentative—which, okay, I’ll admit, I’m guilty of that too—but on those rare occasions where you’re not acting like my evil boss and are just Geralt, you actually make for very pleasant company.”

Geralt frowned at him. “Thank you?”

“You’re welcome,” he replied, sounding unperturbed. However, if the way he was wringing his hands on his lap was any indication, he was feeling as nervous as Geralt did when he’d exited the bathroom. “Now, I know that we argue a lot—”

“Constantly.”

Jaskier nodded in agreement. “But despite all of that, after getting to know you better over the last few days...well, I suppose I’ve started to realise that you’re not all bad. That you’re not bad at all, really. You’re actually very nice. And funny, which took me aback, somewhat. And my Grammy clearly loves you, and so does my mum. And my dad...well he doesn’t like anyone, so he doesn’t count. And I...I like you, too.”

Geralt’s eyes widened with surprise. “Really?”

“In a manner that is distinctly unprofessional,” Jaskier teased, flashing him a wicked grin. “As you might have already guessed.”

Geralt blinked. “I thought...I figured this was just some hate-sex thing that you needed to get out of your system.”

“No. Well…” he shrugged. “Maybe a little bit. But I definitely like you more than I hate you.”

The tension in Geralt’s body eased somewhat. “Oh. Well, that’s good, I suppose. Or is it? Liking each other just makes this whole situation more complicated.”

Jaskier worried his lip. “Oh, I don’t know. I think it simplifies matters quite a bit.”

Geralt’s eyes narrowed. “How so?”

Jaskier shrugged again. “Well, everyone already thinks that we’re sleeping together. Why don’t we just...you know, continue?”

“Continue?” asked Geralt, confused.

“Why not? I don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t complain if this happened again.” Jaskier drew Geralt a shy smile that gave his stomach a pleasant jolt. “If we’re going to pretend to be in a relationship with one another, we might as well enjoy it.”

However casually Jaskier tried to float the suggestion, he couldn’t hide the hopeful note in his voice. Geralt, meanwhile, stared at him in disbelief.

“You are joking, aren’t you?”

“No. Look, I’m not going to pretend that our current predicament isn’t unusual—”

“That’s a bit of an understatement.”

“Just think about it for a second,” Jaskier continued hurriedly. “I’m not suggesting that we change our current plans—we’ll get married in a few days’ time, we’ll go home, and...you know, get on with the rest of our lives. But in the meantime...well, I don’t know about you, but this trip has been pretty stressful. A little sexual relief would certainly make the trip more enjoyable for both of us, wouldn’t you agree?”

Geralt chewed the inside of his cheek. “I don’t know about this…”

“You don’t have to decide right now,” Jaskier assured him. “No pressure, just…” He hesitated a moment before leaning forward and kissing Geralt, just a gentle peck on the lips, but it was enough to send the blood rushing back to Geralt’s groin. Before he could lean back into the kiss, Jaskier pulled away and said, “The offer’s there. So, if you change your mind, just—”

Geralt cut Jaskier off mid-sentence by returning the kiss, and Jaskier seemed to melt against his lips, pushing his fingers through Geralt’s damp hair and pulling him closer. The moment Jaskier had kissed him, the choice was simple. He knew that it was the wrong one but right then, he didn’t care. He’d keep kissing Jaskier for as long as he would have him, even if it was only for a few more days. He would beat himself up over it tomorrow. And the day after that.


End file.
